


Capriccio

by underwaterattribute



Series: Capriccio [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blanket Permission, Fix-It, M/M, Pining, Set In The Modern Day, Slow Burn, Time Travel, but still on the Contient, they're both idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24250219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underwaterattribute/pseuds/underwaterattribute
Summary: Geralt has gotten used to missing Jaskier, and wondering what became of him after he sent him away after the dragon hunt. Really he has. And there is no point thinking about it anyway, because although witchers don’t age, humans certainly do, and after more than seven hundred years, Jaskier is long dead. Which is why it takes him so off guard to find him in the dorm room of a particularly incompetent mage.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Capriccio [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1763521
Comments: 108
Kudos: 829





	1. Dissonance

**Author's Note:**

> A HUGE thank you to [SassyTeaSnob](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyTeaSnob/pseuds/SassyTeaSnob), without whom this fic would not exist, and for the loan of her OC, and to [Jueru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jueru/pseuds/Jueru) for the idea for the title!

“You must be Geralt!” He says, “I’m Reynard.” He stepped forward and gave an awkward wave. “Oh wow, ah, I had always wondered why people react to witchers like that, I mean you never seemed to be THAT scary on TV, but you really. You really are a resident of the uncanny valley, aren’t you? I can’t even put my finger on what is so upsetting about looking at you, but you really are just. Very intimidating.” 

Geralt waited, mostly impatiently, for the lanky, twitchy, young man in front of him to run out of breath and stop talking. It didn’t appear to be going to happen at any time in the near future. 

“Where did you leave him?” he interrupted. 

Reynard twitched a little and flailed towards the stairs, “Um, in my dorm? He was kind of freaking out a little. Or a lot? He tried to stab me with one of my own pens!” He said, indignant. “If anyone is going to kill me with my own stationary, it will be me! Or maybe my history professor, when I completely fail to turn in my assignment.”

Geralt tuned him out. It had been a long time since he had been followed by a chatty companion while he went to do a job, but he still remembered how to concentrate on the task at hand. He made his way up the stairs, and regretted answering his phone when Yennefer called that morning. She had sensed a large spike of chaos from the local university, shortly followed by a somewhat frantic phone call about the incident. The idiot Geralt was currently following had somehow fucked up a simple spell meant to let him see into the past, and summoned someone who should have been long dead. Geralt hadn’t even known that was _possible_. The secondary problem, apart from the maybe haunting, was that the language had changed so much that, whoever Reynard had summoned, they spoke in a way that was utterly unintelligible to people nowadays. That was why Geralt was there, rather than one of the local mages, or a historian. Someone had to tell the poor bastard what had happened to him.

When he reached the door, Reynard now rambling about how he needed to at least be able to get his laptop, even if he had to sleep on someone’s couch that night, Geralt told Reynard to shut up. It didn’t make an appreciable difference in the flow of words coming from him. Geralt had already spent the evening standing behind Yennefer, glowering at rich idiots who had been fawning over her, and wanted to get this over with. There was some familiar smell he could not quite place coming from the room in front of him. He shrugged it off as unthreatening. Without any warning or fanfare, he opened the door. He had expected to quickly disarm the person on the other side, before telling them what had happened, and finding someone historian to deal with them. Instead, all the air left his lungs in a rush. 

Ordinarily, a witcher who freezes in surprise is a dead witcher, and Geralt hadn’t gotten as old as he was by being slow. But it felt as though all of his muscles had locked into place. The figure crouched inside the dorm room, holding a pen threateningly, was one he had not seen in longer than he cared to think of. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier. Jaskier was alive, and here, and straightening to confront Geralt. “Whatever you may think, I did not intend for you to have to ever see me again, and I had nothing to do with whatever brought us here. I will be out of your way as soon as we are free of this place.” His voice was cold, angry. Geralt thought he had not heard anything as lovely in a very, very long time. 

“Jaskier.” All at once, Geralt was able to move again, and he strode into the room and wrapped his arms around a protesting Jaskier. “Jaskier, I should never-” Words failed him. For all that he had longed to see Jaskier again, he had not dared to think of what he would say if he did, not since he had lost hope that he still lived.

“Geralt, what- what is going on. Where are we?” Jaskier’s voice rose high with surprise and alarm. 

Reynard let out a low whistle, “Wow, okay, no wonder I’m failing history, I had no idea that used to be how you greeted strangers. I really should pay more attention in that class, but I thought it would just be easier to, you know, commune with a spirit for a while instead.”

Geralt reluctantly removed his face from where he had been breathing deep against Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier was, if anything, getting more agitated and angry, “Another good question, what _language_ is he speaking? I’ve never heard it before.”

Geralt’s hands didn’t want to let go of Jaskier’s shoulders. “It’s been a very long time, Jaskier. Seven hundred and fifty-eight years since I saw you last. Language has changed a lot since then.”

“Seven hun- what?” Jaskier’s head jerked back and his mouth gaped. “What do you mean it’s been _seven hundred and fifty-eight years_ and ‘language has changed’? You said that vindictive bullshit about everything being my fault two months ago!” He shrugged Geralt’s hands off. “How can it have been nearly eight hundred years?” Jaskier waved his hands wildly through the air. 

“That idiot,” Geralt gestured towards Reynard, “Fucked up a spell in new and interesting ways, and summoned you forward in time.”

“So why are you here?” Jaskier asked with his eyes narrowed.

“He needed someone who can speak the way things were spoken back then. He didn’t know we know each other.” Geralt said. At least he better not. If Reynard had known, and still not told Geralt who was here, he would be swiftly hurting in a sensitive, but not vital, area of his anatomy. “We should go. The trip will take at least an hour at this time of day.”

Jaskier dug his heels in and jerked his arm back. “Go where? And what makes you think I’m going with you?”

“Jaskier, Please. Reynard needs his room back. And I have missed you.”

At that, Jaskier’s eyes widened and he stopped pulling away.

Jaskier stopped dead when they got outside and he saw Geralt’s ride. “What the fuck is that?”

“Motorbike. Put these on.” Geralt thrust the helmet and leather jacket at Jaskier and watched him fumble with them. 

“Yes, that’s very informative. I completely understand what it is, I don’t need any more explanations at all.”Jaskier huffed. “Why would I need to put,” Jaskier held the helmet and jacket out, dangling from his fingers with an expression of bewilderment and disgust, “these on?”

Geralt didn’t think that was entirely fair. They might not be the freshest, but Jaskier should be used to being in close proximity with Geralt and his clothing when they were much sweatier, and smelling strongly of horse and other, less pleasant things. “They’ll protect you if you fall off. Motorbikes are a lot faster than horses.” He stepped forward and pushed the helmet onto Jaskier’s head, taking the time to check the fit, then wrestling him into the jacket, trying not to let his hands linger for too long on the smooth, silk fabric of Jaskier’s doublet.

“But where are we going?” Jaskier asked. 

Reynard stumbled out of the door, clutching his laptop to himself, and tripping over his own feet, saving Geralt from having to answer. “Wait! I still need help with my history assignment! I’m gonna fail at this rate. My history professor is going to kill me if I hand in something like last time. You have to give me at least _some_ help.”

Geralt stepped forward and growled, “For all you know, your little fuck up changed the course of history. If you’re lucky, Yennefer will send someone to get all the details from you. If you’re less lucky, Yennefer will question you herself. If you fuck up again, _I_ will come and deal with you. Am I being clear?”

Reynard scrambled back towards the building, nearly dropping his laptop, “Crystal, yes, perfectly clear.” He waved an arm in a vague direction that might have indicated somewhere on campus, and his voice rose to a squeak, “I’ll just go get my help at student services, then, shall I?”

After one last dark look towards Reynard’s retreating back, Geralt turned and got on the motorbike. “Get on, Jaskier.”

“ _How_ do I get on? Do I just-” He gestured vaguely towards the motorbike like it was going to bite him. To be fair, his experience with Geralt’s transportation made that a not-unlikely prospect. Roach absolutely would have. 

After some fumbling and repositioning, Jaskier was finally securely seated behind Geralt on the motorbike and he pulled out of the car park and into traffic. With some guilt, Geralt enjoyed the way Jaskier was clinging to him, even given the way it was accompanied by yelps of alarm every few minutes, and Jaskier’s voice rambling questions and observations behind him. The morning rush hour traffic made the journey slow, with lots of starting and stopping. Geralt could just faintly smell Jaskier and leather behind him, under the usual smells of a busy city; exhaust, a wide variety of food smells, tar, rotting garbage and the tang of metal. It was both a pleasant distraction from the sometimes overwhelming sensory input, and like something out of a swiftly forgotten dream. Each time Jaskier gripped tighter, or muttered about something they were passing, was a reminder that he was there, he was _back_ , Geralt had a chance to make things _right_ , if he didn’t fuck it up again.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, and no time at all, they had arrived at Geralt’s building, a modern monstrosity that Yennefer had insisted on when she moved to the outskirts of Oxenfurt and brought Geralt with her. Jaskier looked up at it with wide eyes, and fingers holding so tightly to the helmet that the tips were turning white. His eyes only got wider when the elevator jerked into motion, and he reached out and clutched Geralt’s sleeve. 

When Geralt finally ushered Jaskier into the apartment, Jaskier didn’t hesitate to start inspecting his surroundings. The open plan layout was no doubt entirely unfamiliar to Jaskier, who looked out of place, in his doublet and trousers cut in a style that had not been in common use for centuries, next to Geralt’s fridge and microwave, and he was still wearing Geralt’s leather jacket. The dissonance was not helping Geralt’s feeling of unreality, as though at any moment he was going to wake to find that Jaskier was still nothing more than centuries old regrets. He followed Jaskier with his eyes as he flitted around the room, exclaiming over the carvings in the wooden coffee table and stools at the kitchen bench, and peering at the painting of a field of buttercups that Ciri had gifted to Geralt, long ago. 

“This place is awfully homey for a place to stash someone for a while.” Jaskier said, not quite a question. 

“It’s my home.” Geralt said, putting the keys on a hook by the door.

Jaskier glanced at Geralt, still hovering near the doorway, and flung his arm towards where a dagger was discreetly hidden under the coffee table, and the silverware that was neatly arranged in containers on the countertop in the kitchen. “Well that certainly explains all the silver, and the hidden weaponry.”

He skirted around the dark leather couch, giving a puzzled look at the television before heading towards the curtains and peeking out the window. Geralt stepped forward and gently pulled him away before his fidgeting with the curtains dislodged a blade hidden on the curtain rail.

Jaskier headed towards the kitchen and began flipping open cupboards and doors to discover what lay behind them, making his way around the large open space, with Geralt watching him from his place near the kitchen window. Occasionally, Jaskier would hold up an item he found and turn it around, as though searching for answers to what the undoubtedly alien thing was. The phone charger got a baffled look, as did the remote, and the coffee pot. The section of the pantry that contained his witcher potions and ingredients barely got a reaction, beyond an uneasy glace towards the food in the next cupboard along, but what finally brought Jaskier’s motion to an end was the storage cupboard in the hall towards the bedroom. 

“You have a lute. Why do you have a lute?” Jaskier’s hands twitched towards the instrument, as though to pick it up. 

Geralt shifted uneasily, and answered, “I’ve had it for a long time now. I can’t recall where I bought it.”

Taking that as permission, Jaskier picked up the lute and strummed a few notes before grimacing and starting to tune the instrument. He suddenly stopped and turned to Geralt, “Say, where is my lute, anyway? And all of my other things.”

“Back wherever and whenever you were before you were summoned, I imagine.” Geralt replied.

Jaskier gasped, clutching his chest, “Are you telling me the only belongings I have in this world are the clothes I am standing up in? That I am utterly destitute and lacking even the means to procure more coin for myself!” He flicked his eyes up and down Geralt, taking in the black jeans and henley and added, “Not to mention, you’ve never exactly been a beacon of fashion, but I suspect that my look is somewhat out of date.” He slumped, curling his shoulders forward, “And me with no means to remedy that.”

“We’ll get you some clothes in the morning. It’s getting late in the day.” It was only just beginning to edge towards evening, but Geralt was not ready to have Jaskier in another room, for his scent to be covered up with the smells of the outside world. “For now, we should eat. I’ll order some food.”

When Geralt simply took out his phone and ordered a simple meal for them both, Jaskier glanced about and said, “I thought you were going to get food?”

Without looking up from his phone, Geralt answered, “I am. It will be around twenty minutes.”

Jaskier sat on one end of the couch and busied himself with tuning the lute while they waited for the food to arrive, and Geralt sat on the other end, watching him out of the corner of his eye and pretending to be occupied with his phone. He couldn’t help but notice that Jaskier kept his body angled away from him, and that the lute had been correctly tuned for some time, but that Jaskier was still hunched over it, as though it required his complete concentration. 

Finally, Jaskier turned towards him and burst out, “Why bring me here, anway? Since you were _so_ keen to be rid of me.”

Geralt licked his lips and couldn’t hold his gaze, “I suppose I’ve worked out what pleases me.”

The delivery driver knocking to be let in broke the tension. Geralt thanked the driver and gave him a tip, while Jaskier watched from the couch, then Jaskier was occupied setting out the plates while Geralt fetched cutlery. 

Jaskier stopped short when he saw the forks. “Are we expecting to be attacked? What are those for?”

Geralt’s brow crinkled in momentary confusion before clearing, “No, they’re eating utensils. So you don’t have to use your fingers.”

Jaskier threw his hands up in the air, “What is wrong with using my fingers? And while we’re on the subject, what the hell is that little rectangle thing you keep looking at, and who was that at the door with our food?” His voice rose until it was a shout, and he threw his arms out to the sides.

Geralt addressed his first question,“It’s just easier if you don’t want to get your hands dirty.” He reached out to touch Jaskier’s arm, and he jerked away. 

“You can’t just expect me to know what things are, Geralt!” Jaskier started pacing the room, shoulders pulled tight, “I don’t know what half the things in here even are! I can’t understand what anyone but you is saying! You’ve never had a home before, but now here you are, with a home, and apparently servants, and I have no idea what’s going on, and you’re not telling me anything!” He finally came to a halt near the couch, almost quivering with tension.

Geralt approached him like he would a spooked animal, hands outstretched, “I’m sorry,” he said. Jaskier let out a bitter little laugh, and Geralt sighed. “I haven’t been thinking. I’ll try to explain more of what is going on. We should eat, then I’ll show you everything in the main room.” He managed to coax Jaskier back over to the kitchen bench, and the food. 

Geralt had ordered a roast and vegetables he remembered Jaskier liking, and other than demonstrating how to use a fork, they managed to get through the meal with minimal conversation. Afterwards, Geralt started showing Jaskier the various items around the apartment he would not have seen before. The dishwasher, fridge and microwave were treated with mild curiosity, but little true interest. He was more engaged when Geralt showed him the television, with it’s remote, but his interest wasn’t truly captured until he realised Geralt’s phone could play music. After a quick tutorial on how to play a song, and move forwards or backwards in the play list, Geralt watched as Jaskier became absorbed in the music. 

For the first time since seeing Jaskier again, he looked happy. Relaxed. Excited, even. Some songs he would tap his fingers on his thigh along with the beat, or mutter to himself about the chord progression and melody, before taking the song back to the beginning to listen again. Most of what he said only required a quiet “Hm” from Geralt, and he was content to listen to Jaskier enthuse about the music. At one point he got excited and bounced up to fetch the lute to play the song along with the recording. Geralt sat on the other end of the couch and watched it all with a small smile. 

After several songs, Jaskier came to one that Yennefer must have added to his playlist, one that was truly unfamiliar to Jaskier. As the first sounds of heavy drums and a woman’s voice came from Geralt’s phone, his eyes grew wide, and he turned to Geralt with a luminous smile. When the bass guitar started he began nodding his head along with the beat and closed his eyes with a look of rapture. He sat, barely moving aside from his head nodding, while he listened to the song, and as soon as it ended he started it again. “Geralt! You didn’t tell me there were new kinds of music! New instruments! I couldn’t understand a word of it, but have the way lyrics are used changed?”

Geralt smiled and ducked his head, “I don’t know much.”

Jaskier scoffed good naturedly, “Of course you don’t. When have you ever paid enough attention?”

“But songs are less likely to tell a story, now.” Geralt continued. 

They spent the next hour listening to music, while Jaskier asked Geralt questions he couldn’t answer and in some ways it felt like travelling back in time, spending a quiet evening just talking to Jaskier. It was something he had not thought much about when he had it last, and something he was determined to treasure now. 

Eventually the phone made a soft ding sound, and the battery power warning came on. Geralt realised he and Jaskier had drifted closer together on the couch, so close that the way they were leaning towards each other had their heads nearly touching, the hairs that had come loose from Geralt’s hair tie almost brushing Jaskier’s nose. “That means it needs to be charged. Ah, it needs to be plugged in, like this,” he reached over the arm of the couch where the charger was hidden, “So that it doesn’t run out of power and stop working.”

Jaskier straightened up and stretched from his spot on the couch. “It’s getting late, anyway. I won't learn about an entire new genre of music in one night. Where am I going to sleep, anyway? And is it possible to get a bath brought up?”

Geralt hadn’t thought about sleep arrangements, only that he wanted Jaskier in his space, in his apartment, so he put off answering that question, “I’ll show you the bathroom. You’re going to like this.”

He led Jaskier to one of the two doors he had not explored yet, and showed him the white tiled room. Jaskier’s curiosity turned to amazement as he looked around the room and saw the mirror above the sink. “How on earth did you manage to afford that! I don’t think I have even seen mirrors of such high quality that belong to royalty!”

“Hm. It came with the place.” When Jaskier turned to gape at him, Geralt started showing him how to turn the shower on and how to change the temperature, as well as where the plug for the bath was. Jaskier was so excited to try it out that Geralt had to remind him not to get in fully clothed. 

Once Jaskier was confident with the controls of the shower, Geralt left him to it, and went to sprawl on his couch, where Jaskier had been sitting. With the sounds of Jaskier testing the acoustics of the bathroom with a song, and the faint smell of him on the couch cushions, Geralt was able to bask in the knowledge that, for the first time in centuries, Jaskier was _here_. There had been a time that he thought the bard’s need to continually make noise would drive him mad, and now it was comforting. His paranoid thoughts couldn’t tell him that the scent of him was nothing more than a sense memory, when he could also hear the faint strains of… was that ‘The Merry Maids of Nilfgaard’? Of all the songs to choose. Geralt huffed a little to himself. He hadn’t heard that obscene song in so long he had forgotten it. 

Eventually Jaskier moved on to singing other songs from his repertoire and Geralt moved to check his phone’s charge. There was enough for the phone call he should have made several hours ago. It rang for long enough that it seemed it would go to voicemail, and Geralt growled in irritation.

Eventually, though, Yennefer picked up. “You took your time. Did you have trouble finding a historian to palm whoever it was off onto? I would have thought at least _one_ of them would be salivating at the thought of some living history. Who was it anyway?”

It took a moment for Geralt to reply, to force the words from his mouth, as though saying it would somehow make it not true. He took a deep breath, inhaling the lingering smells and finally said, “Yenn. It’s Jaskier. That disaster of a mage brought Jaskier here.”

“ _Jaskier_. Well, I never thought I’d hear about that irritating little twerp again.” She paused, softening. “I can give you a week. Then I need you at the political mixer, to keep that odious toad who calls himself the mayor of Oxenfurt away this time. I really don’t think I can put up with his ham handed attempts at intimidation again.”

“Hm,” Geralt really could not have cared less about whichever politician had been foolishly irritating Yennefer even on a normal day, and he had even less interest now. 

“And I may have to go pay that ‘disaster of a mage’, as you put it, a visit.” Yennefer mused, “If he had enough power to do this and not get himself killed, he could be formidable indeed, with the right training.” Geralt wasn’t sure who to feel more sorry for, Yennefer, for having to try to get something sensible from Reynard, or Reynard for having to bear the brunt of Yennefer’s interest. 

“Tell me what you learn from him about the spell.” Silence. “Yennefer?” No response. “Fuck. Why do you always hang up on me?”

Geralt plugged his phone back in to charge more, and listened to Jaskier splashing in the shower, now exclaiming to himself about the 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner, and it occurred to him that he was undoubtedly going to end up having a cold shower, with how long Jaskier had been using up all the hot water. It also occurred to him that unless he took a towel in for Jaskier, he was going to use Geralt’s when he inevitably got out of the cooling shower, and the thought of the smell of both of them on it was both wonderful and terrible. 

When he stepped into the bathroom to leave the towel on the sink, Geralt realised that Jaskier was just behind the flimsy shower curtain. Naked. Jaskier was actually here. And naked. It had never been something that gave him pause before, but now he could not stop thinking of it. 

The cold air that had been let in when Geralt opened the door must have reached the shower and alerted Jaskier to his presence, and he called out, “Geralt, the water is getting colder no matter what I do with these knobs here. Is there something I’m missing?”

Geralt snorted, “You’ve used up all the hot water.”

“Oh,” Jaskier sounded disappointed. “Time to get out then, I guess.” And with no further warning he threw the shower curtain back and stepped out. Geralt couldn’t help the way his eyes followed the rivulets of water down Jaskier’s body, catching on the hair on his chest, and his mouth dried up. He thrust the towel he was still holding at Jaskier and fled the room. 

While Geralt was still cursing himself for a fool, Jaskier followed him out of the bathroom, now mercifully with the towel wrapped around his waist. He had never been distracted by Jaskier’s body before, and yet now, when he should be content to be in his company again, he found he wanted more. Jaskier was still angry at him for the terrible things he had said on the mountain, so long ago for Geralt, but barely any time at all for Jaskier. Geralt hardly needed to give him any more reasons to resent him, to want to leave again, when he only just got him back. It was one thing to wish he had had a chance to make things right. It was something else entirely to throw away this opportunity to have Jaskier in his life again because he was letting his cock do the thinking. 

“You don’t happen to have something I can borrow to wear until I can get my clothes laundered, do you?” Jaskier inquired, still wearing nothing but that damn towel, “Because if I’m noticing that they’re somewhat pungent, I can’t even imagine what they’re like for you.” Geralt had noticed that they smelled, but it hadn’t bothered him. He would not have been able to live in a city if the smell of unwashed humans overly bothered him, and the more obvious reminder that Jaskier was truly there had been pleasant. Not to mention that deodorant was a rather recent, if usually pleasant, trend. More pleasant, however, was the more subtle scent of Jaskier, fresh from the shower, having used Geralt’s toiletries. A primal part of him was very pleased with the idea of Jaskier smelling at all like Geralt.

“I’ll get you some clothes to put on for now.” Once Geralt had fetched some soft sweatpants for Jaskier, he excused himself for his own shower, feeling somewhat grateful now that Jaskier had used up all the hot water, although he still did not feel any impulse to linger. 

Jaskier must have spent some time examining the unfamiliar clothes before dressing, because he barged in just as Geralt was finishing his shower, heedless of his state of dress. And why would it bother him? They had shared rooms, and beds so often in the past. Privacy was hard to come by on the Path, and it had been utterly inconsequential to continue their conversations as the other bathed. Jaskier wasn’t to know of Geralt’s too-late realisation of how he felt about the bard. 

“I just have to know what these trousers look like. They can’t possibly be flattering, but that mirror is a marvel, isn’t it?” Jaskier immediately went to the mirror to preen, turning back and forth, pulling faces at the clothing. His attention was diverted, however, when Geralt stepped out of the shower.

“That scar.” Jaskier whipped around, and reached to lightly touch a faint, silvery line that wrapped around Geralt’s side, from his back, just above his hip, and reaching around almost to his thigh. He had been there when Geralt received it, had staunched the bleeding with his doublet, while they waited to see if Geralt’s potions would work, or if he would die. The raised, twisted scar tissue had pulled at every step for the longest time. “It’s almost gone.”

“Scars do that, eventually. Even the worst ones.” Geralt rested his hand over Jaskier’s. 

Jaskier finally met Geralt’s eyes and murmured, “It really has been more than seven hundred years, hasn’t it?”

“Yes,” He answered, equally quietly, before abruptly breaking eye contact and reaching around Jaskier for his towel.

Whatever Jaskier was thinking that was leaving him so uncharacteristically quiet was interrupted with a jaw cracking yawn. “Being thrown into the distant future is exhausting. Who would have guessed?” He asked, yawning again. 

“The bed is through that door,” Geralt pointed awkwardly with his elbow, unwilling to risk dropping his towel.

When Geralt had finally dressed and stepped into the bedroom, Jaskier was already dozing under the covers, and he abruptly remembered with a lurch that he may not be welcome to join him. As Geralt turned to go, Jaskier sleepily lifted the covers in invitation. Geralt was many things, but he had never claimed to be a good man. He climbed into the bed.

He expected it to take hours to fall asleep, if he slept at all. But, surrounded by the smell of Jaskier, and lulled by the sound of his breathing, Geralt fell asleep between one moment and the next. 

***

When Jaskier woke, the bed beside him was still warm, the sheets uncommonly soft, and he took a moment to try to remember the name of the person he must have gone to bed with the night before. It took a moment, but he remembered the day before, walking down a lonely road between villages by himself, then suddenly being in a small, cramped room with a skinny young man babbling something at him in a language he had never heard before. His eyes flew open, and he half expected it to have been a vivid and very strange dream. But no, he was still in the room he remembered from last night, and still wearing the peculiar trousers that Geralt had brought him, that stretched so far out at the waist, and then snapped back into shape. 

Geralt. He had been acting so peculiarly. After how vicious he had been on the mountain, Jaskier had expected Geralt to be coldly dismissive, if he ever even saw the other man again. And Jaskier certainly was not prepared to simply pretend that Geralt had not blamed all of his life’s misfortunes on him. And yet, right from the start, Geralt had been acting more warmly than he could remember him ever being. It was, frankly, unsettling. At least, when it wasn’t infuriating. 

Jaskier was still not quite awake, but he needed to see the rest of the dwelling again. Just to check. To see if things really were as strange as they seemed yesterday, or if he had simply been overwhelmed by suddenly being in an entirely different place. So, still yawning, he staggered into the main room. Yes, the room was still painted an unsettling even white, although the furniture was certainly more what Jaskier would have expected if Geralt ever settled down, all sturdy, and made of dark wood. 

Geralt was in the kitchen area, with something frying in a pan on top of the… what had Geralt called it? A stove? Whatever it was, there was no smell of smoke, and yet there was a sizzling sound, and the smell of bacon and something unfamiliar. Jaskier stumbled over and sat heavily on one of the stools, “Ooh, food. It smells good. Better than what you usually shove on a stick and put over the fire.” He faltered a moment, seeing the scar Jaskier still had nightmares about Geralt receiving, so faded and almost gone hammered home that it really had been an extraordinarily long time for Geralt, “Or, better than what you used to put over the fire. I don’t actually know what you usually do now. I suppose today I’ll have to find some new clothes for myself.”

“Hm.” Well, it may have been a long time for Geralt, but clearly he hadn’t changed all that much, if his only contribution to the conversation was a wordless grunt. 

“I suppose I’ll have to learn what is fashionable now. Both in clothes and in songs.” Jaskier did not let on how daunting that thought was. There was so much to learn, and he would have to do it quickly, if he were to not starve or end up on the street. “That music last night was a _revelation_! And if that’s the music _you_ have, imagine what else there is! And I’m definitely going to have to find someone else to learn about fashion from, you don’t even wear colours, and I saw so many colours yesterday on the way here.” Jaskier threw out his arms to illustrate just how many different shades he had seen. There had been vivid reds and yellows, and even one man in a shirt cut in an unfamiliar style that was a deep, rich purple. The clothes were not the only things that were startling colours. There had been a person who’s hair was several different colours that surely nature had not gifted them, not that bright pink, fading to deep purple? And the clothes themselves were strange. Many people wore trousers similar to the ones Geralt had been wearing, but mostly in shades of blue, and so many of them had been women! Not a single woman he saw had been wearing a dress that he would have been expecting, many of them wore dresses that exposed a truly scandalous amount of their legs, much to his delight. 

While he was talking, Geralt slid a plate in front of him, along with a knife and a fork, which Jaskier ignored. There was the expected bacon, and something he had never seen before, that was at least an appealing golden brown colour. “What is this? Don’t get me wrong, it does look good, but I’ve never seen it’s like before.” He pulled part of it off cautiously, and nibbled on it. Whatever it was had a pleasing texture, crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside. His eyebrows went up as he got a good taste of it. It must have been fried in the same pan as the bacon, and was pleasantly starchy, almost like parsnip, although less sweet. He grabbed a larger piece and ate that too.

“Hash browns.” Geralt grunted from beside him. 

After Jaskier had wheedled another of those hash browns from Geralt, and they had finished eating, Geralt wordlessly walked back into the bedroom and emerged shortly after with a shirt that clearly belonged to the witcher, but which probably strained to contain his broad shoulders. He also, to Jaskier’s displeasure, insisted he put the hideous, heavy coat back on, and handed the strange round helm to him again, along with his boots. It felt rather like he was playing dress up in Geralt’s armour. After their trip here, however, Jaskier understood more clearly why Geralt had insisted on protective gear; he had never travelled so fast in his life! He had clung to Geralt for dear life, and only occasionally had dared look at the scenery that had been flashing past. Once, he would have been thrilled to have an excuse to cuddle close to Geralt, and while the man was still just as devastatingly attractive, Jaskier now had somewhat mixed feelings about the closeness. 

Their trip to the store Geralt was taking them to was just as overwhelming as the ride the day before, with the roar of the other vehicles on the strange, black road, the lights, the vibration of the motorbike underneath him, and the smells. For a large part of the trip Jaskier simply put his head down on Geralt’s shoulder and closed his eyes, for fear that it would all become too much, and the hysteria he could feel building would overcome him. 

They finally arrived at a building that looked just as alien as the ones around it, with entire walls seemingly made of glass, and Geralt swung his leg over the bike and walked towards what became apparent was a door. As he stepped through, there was a cheerful tinkling sound from above them, and a voice called something out that Jaskier couldn’t understand. Assuming that if it were something important Geralt would do something about it, Jaskier darted off to investigate the shop. 

There were shelves and shelves of items, most of which were clearly clothing, and others that were possibly jewelry. He ran his hands over the eerily regular metal shelving, and took a heavy silver chain off the shelf for a closer look. Eventually he put it back in its place on the shelf. He was just reaching for another unfamiliar thing when he heard Geralt call him from the near the wall of the shop, “Jaskier, get over here!”

“You hollered? What is so urgent, then, Geralt?” Jaskier ordinarily would have been irritated at being ordered about, but having Geralt yell at him was far closer to the treatment he had been expecting from the witcher. Hearing it calmed something in him that had been wondering if the man really was Geralt, or something more sinister that had borrowed his face, to worm it’s way inside Jaskier’s head.

Geralt was standing with a woman who barely reached Geralt’s chin, even with her hair, which was a startling bright red colour, rolled into dramatic curls on top of her head, and shoes, an equally eye catching red, that lifted her heels easily six inches above the ground. Her dress was the brightest, clearest yellow Jaskier had ever seen, with a pattern of what appeared to be skulls with flowers drawn on them at regular intervals on the yellow. Additionally, the dress shockingly stopped just below her knees, leaving her calves exposed. Jaskier could get used to views like that!

Most fascinating of all was that her bare shoulders were decorated with the most extensive tattoos he had ever seen, let alone on a woman, and some of them had a vivid red he had never seen in a tattoo at all. 

She flicked her eyes over Jaskier, who shifted a little uncomfortably in his borrowed clothes, and turned to Geralt with a grin, holding up a fist and saying something that may have been approving. Geralt said something back and gestured towards Jaskier, who scowled.

“Translation, Geralt.” He snapped, “Don’t just talk about me like I’m not here.”

“I’ve told her that I need a jacket for you. I need to be able to wear mine, so you need your own. She’ll find some that might fit, and you can choose one in a style you like.” Geralt sighed, and didn’t seem to notice Jaskier’s growing irritation. 

The woman turned towards the coats and started pulling some down and gave them to Jaskier while saying something to Geralt, as though he wasn’t right there! 

“Try those on, and tell me which one you like best.” Geralt instructed.

Jaskier grudgingly tried on the heavy coats, until he found some that were neither too tight nor too loose around the shoulders, and from there chose one that, like the others, was mostly black, but which also had stripes of yellow as dandelion bright as the woman’s dress.

After the coat, Geralt steered them over to a shelf that held a range of helms similar to the one Geralt had been lending him, and pushed them onto Jaskier’s head until they found one that seemed to satisfy some unknown-to-Jaskier list of criteria. Geralt grunted with satisfaction, and took the helm and coat to a counter near the back of the store. Jaskier expected to see coin change hands, and intended to keep track of how much it was, so he could pay Geralt back. With everything that had passed between them, Jaskier had no intention of ending up in his debt. Instead of a coin pouch, however, Geralt brought out a folded leather pocket, and took out a card made of what Geralt had explained was plastic, and waved it over some sort of device. 

Next, they climbed back on the motorbike, now both clad in the heavy coats and helms, and Geralt drove them to a massive building, surrounded with an open, black, paved area, with white lines painted on it at regular intervals. There were possibly hundreds of the vehicles that had been on the road with them, parked in the area, and Geralt led him through the crowd of them, occasionally stopping to let one drive past them, towards the building. 

Once they were inside, Jaskier had to take a moment to take it all in. Sounds echoed strangely in the cavernous space, much larger than even the great banquet hall in Cintra, and it was unnaturally well lit for an enclosed space. People walked in every direction, some at a slow amble and others clearly in a hurry, all dressed strangely. There was a woman near the entrance to what looked like a store selling fresh fruit who was pushing a wheeled metal contraption and wearing a soft looking green shirt, with blue trousers that did not even go halfway to her knees! Towards the other side of the massive corridor was a group of what looked to be pre-teen girls, all dressed in far smaller clothes than properly fit on their tiny frames. 

Everywhere Jaskier turned, there was another sight to gape at. Here was a shop filled with glittering stones that must surely be diamonds, there was a store with puppies and kittens in a window display, and there was a stunning array of different outfits and hairstyles. Jaskier could hear music coming from an unknown place, and strained to hear the tune. Geralt eventually put his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and steered them through the crowds, past an area where all the stores seemed to be selling ready-made food, and into one of the shops that had clothing in it. 

“You’ll need to choose at least four pairs of trousers, and as many shirts. Don’t worry about formal wear just yet. If they don’t fit, we’ll go back and try another size.” Geralt told him.

“What do you mean, ‘if they don’t fit’? Surely if they don’t fit, the tailor will adjust them?” Jaskier asked.

“No, people don’t usually tailor their clothes anymore. They just find the closest fit they can, and buy that.” Geralt explained.

Jaskier relaxed somewhat once he had a specific task to focus on. He first moved through the entire area, examining the clothes on offer, attempting to find the pattern they had been organised by, then going back and searching out things that had caught his eye. He picked up a shirt that had been as soft to the touch as silk, but not as smooth, in a vivid blue, and another of the same style in a deep, rich red. As he searched, he found a pair of purple trousers in an area that had many pictures of women wearing the clothes that were for sale, and turned to Geralt, “Purple! I’ve never seen so much purple fabric in my life!”

“Purple dye is no more expensive than any other colour now. Don’t hold back because you think it will be more costly.” Geralt told him, and passed him a pair that looked likely to fit.

Eventually, he gathered a pile of clothes to try, and Geralt showed him where small rooms had been set aside for changing. 

“The colour on this one is incredible!” Jaskier called from the curtained off stall. “Shame it doesn’t sit quite right about the arms. Are you _sure_ that it doesn’t need to be made to fit, Geralt?” 

Geralt grunted in what might have been an affirmative, and Jaskier continued commentating on the clothes as he tried each item. Occasionally he stepped out of the stall and asked Geralt’s opinion of the cut of something, or the combination of colours, not really expecting a proper answer, but wanting to be sure that Geralt had not left, and abandoned him in the store.

After some time, Jaskier settled on several pairs of trousers and shirts, all in a variety of bright colours, and some with patterns. “Not a single bit of lace to be seen! It’s a tragedy! So many fantastic colours, and not a scrap of lace. But I suppose we are only getting enough things to wear day to day, not proper outfits, and certainly nothing for performing yet, so I will get by.”

Eventually a teenager in a shirt that matched in colour with the signs at the front of the store, and what looked like the glasses Jaskier had once seen an elderly nobleman wear, walked over to talk to them, and asked Jaskier a question, who turned to Geralt for a translation.

“She wants to know if you found what you were looking for, or if you need help.”

Jaskier pursed his lips, frustrated at his inability to communicate, “I suppose I still need underthings. Do they sell those here, or shall we need to go to another store?”

“They sell those here,” Geralt told Jaskier, then turned to the girl to pass on the question.

She smiled at Jaskier and said something in a much louder, slower voice than before.

“Yes, because yelling it at me makes you _so_ much more understandable. Honestly.” Jaskier’s words were clipped, frustrated, and his shoulders were beginning to draw up with tension.

“I’ll show you where they are,” Geralt soothed, and reached a hand to guide Jaskier towards wherever the girl had said the underthings were, but the other man pulled his shoulder away.

“Just tell me where she said they are.” Jaskier demanded, looking at the girl, who was looking increasingly uncomfortable, and likely to bolt. 

Geralt sighed, and told him, “To the left, past the stacks of folded blue trousers. They’ll be in clear packaging.”

Jaskier finally turned his full attention on Geralt, “Would it harm you to just tell me exactly what she said? How am I to learn for myself if you won’t do anything to help me?” His eyes were narrowed and fists clenched tightly onto the clothes he had chosen.

Geralt spread his hands, “I was only trying to help, explaining things she wouldn’t think to tell you. I should have thought. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier deflated abruptly. “Let’s just get them and be out of here.”

After grabbing a pack of underwear and taking them to a counter where Geralt again waved the plastic card at a strange device, he steered them towards the stores selling ready made food. He showed Jaskier the options, and let him choose what they would eat.

As they sat, Jaskier’s eyebrows furrowed, and he asked, “Why hasn’t anyone asked for payment? We’ve been to two stores and gotten food, and I haven’t seen a single coin exchanged. Not by anyone.”

Through his mouthful of food, Geralt explained, “I have been paying. That card I bring out, it..” His brow scrunched up as he tried to think of a way to explain, “It represents money. When I wave it over the card reader, it takes the correct amount from my account.”

Jaskier was moving his food around his plate, not eating much, “So you’ve been paying for everything, then. I’ll pay you back, when I can.”

Geralt leaned forward, “Jaskier, don’t worry about it. Truly.”

Jaskier bristled again, “I don’t need your pity. I can take care of myself. Once I get my feet under me, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Geralt looked Jaskier in the eye as he spoke. “And I’m sure you will be, too. Just let me help my dear friend.”

Jaskier’s jaw dropped in disbelief. Geralt had spent _twenty years_ denying that they were friends, and now, after everything, he decides it’s time to acknowledge it? How dare he? As if a belated confirmation of a friendship that _he_ had tried to end would make up for the cruel words he had flung at him. “Oh, _now_ I’m a dear friend. Here I was thinking it would be a blessing to be rid of me.” Jaskier hissed.

He pushed off the table as he stood and muttered, “I don’t think I’m very hungry right now.” Then stalked away.

By the time Jaskier had rounded the corner, most of his anger had faded, and left him feeling hollow. He slumped onto a bench and watched people walk past. Geralt was clearly trying. He just wasn’t sure if it was too little, too late. He was just still so _angry_ , and _hurt_. He had spent twenty years telling himself that Geralt was a man of few words, and he only needed to pay attention to what he did, and not what he said. But twenty years was a long time to wait for a kind word, and what he had said on the mountain had seemed pretty definitive. Now that Geralt was finally saying the kinds of things he had longed to hear, he found he couldn’t trust it. He was waiting for Geralt to go back to dismissing him, to denying any connection, or to discover that none of this was real, was simply some sort of illusion he had been caught in. Nilfgaard’s mages were known for being ruthless, and he had been getting awfully close to the border.

Jaskier must have been slumped on the bench, hands in his hair, for at least five minutes before anyone approached him. He felt a light tap on his arm, and when he looked up, there was a small child in front of him. She said something to him, that he smiled at uncomprehendingly. She patted him on the hand with one sticky hand, and held out a paper bag for him to take. As soon as he had it, she smiled and ran back to where a woman who must have been her mother was waiting. 

Once she was gone, Jaskier peered into the bag she had given him, and discovered a slightly squashed, round object. He pulled it out and discovered the likely reason for the girl’s hands being so sticky. The outside was shiny, and it was a similar colour to the hash browns from that morning, but much softer, and round, with a hole in the middle. Tentatively, Jaskier licked some of whatever the sticky substance was off a finger and his eyebrows shot up. It was by far the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. Less hesitantly, he took a small bite from the sweet. It was similar to a cake, but softer than anything he had ever eaten. After another two bites the sweetness became cloying, and he tucked the rest of it safely back in the paper bag for later. 

He looked up, to find that Geralt was watching him from a few stores down. Jaskier couldn’t interpret the look on his face. 

Slowly, leaving time for Jaskier to decide to walk away if he wanted to, Geralt approached. “Ready to leave?”

Jaskier heaved a sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

***

Some of the muscles that had tensed up in Geralt’s shoulders and back relaxed when they arrived at his home. It was always a relief to be away from people’s wary stares. Once, he would have simply left town and spent time travelling in the wilderness, but there were so many more people these days that it wasn’t a viable solution anymore. He often missed the times he had been on the road with only Roach for company. He had always very carefully not thought of who else had kept him company in those times.

Jaskier slunk in behind him, clutching his bag of new clothes and quietly put them in the bedroom. Jaskier being subdued was concerning, but Geralt was at a loss for what to do about it. While the bard was busy organising his clothes, and changing into some of his own, rather than the borrowed ones he had been wearing all day, Geralt ordered some food, since Jaskier had barely eaten, and his kitchen was still lacking, to say the least. 

Jaskier came out of the bedroom just in time to hear the knock on the door of the food being delivered, and, most likely out of habit, as he had always been the one of them more suited to dealing with people, opened the door.

“Uh, delivery for, uh, Gerald?” The teenage delivery boy stammered out, darting a glance at Geralt, before looking back to the much less intimidating Jaskier. Who had stiffened as soon as the delivery boy started talking.

Geralt walked over and gently moved Jaskier aside to collect the food and thank the delivery boy, before depositing it on the kitchen bench. “Jaskier?” He asked, cautiously.

A dam seemed to break inside Jaskier, and his uncharacteristic stillness exploded into motion again. “Why the _fuck_ am I here?” He flung his arms out, and started pacing, “I’m completely useless! What is the point of a bard who can’t speak to anyone? If _you_ are the one talking for _me_ , things have gone seriously to shit.” He was pulling at his hair, and gesturing wildly. “I’m not supposed to be here! It’s nearly _eight hundred years_ in the future. The only familiar thing here is _you_ , and, frankly, I could have done without seeing you again.” He spat out. Geralt flinched. Jaskier had always had a way of gutting people with his words, but Geralt had never been the target before. 

“And I’m here because, what? Some idiot mage couldn’t do a spell right?” Jaskier’s pacing had brought him almost all the way back to the kitchen now, “Surely there’s a way to send me back to where I should be, then I wouldn’t be here, burdening you.” He paused. “Why weren’t you more angry with that mage, anyway? I would have thought you’d be furious with him for making you put up with me again.” Jaskier sneered.

“Because I’m grateful to him!” The words seemed to burst out of Geralt without permission. “Because I spent seven hundred and fifty eight _years_ regretting what I said, and thinking that the last thing I ever said to you was also the worst thing I ever said to you.” As he spoke, Geralt slowly stepped towards Jaskier, until he was almost toe to toe with him, and held his eyes, his voice softening. “Once I calmed down, I looked for you. I wanted to make things right. Then I thought you were dead, and I would never have a chance. I’ve regretted it ever since. And that stupid mage has brought you back, and I’m so pathetically grateful to him that he could fuck up a hundred more spells and I wouldn’t care!”

Geralt braced himself, waiting for Jaskier’s scathing words, for his vitriol to cut into him again, digging into the hurts that he thought he had long since scarred over. He deserved those words, deserved Jaskier’s anger. But Jaskier said nothing. Instead, he took one last step towards Geralt, and wrapped his arms around his waist. For a moment Geralt could do nothing, then his muscles unfroze and he leaned into it, wrapping his arms around Jaskier in return, burrowing his face into the crook of his shoulder and inhaling deeply. He reveled in the feel of Jaskier’s body, warm and familiar against his, the smell of him so close. He didn’t deserve this, but the gods knew he would take whatever Jaskier was willing to give him.

Geralt didn’t keep track of how long they spent, standing like that in the kitchen. He was almost giddy with the knowledge that Jaskier didn’t hate him, not for what he said all those years ago, and not for being glad he was there, and he still had a chance to fix things between them. Eventually, though, Jaskier’s stomach rumbled, and they broke apart while Jaskier giggled a little with the broken tension. 

Rather than venturing into the outside world again so soon, they ate the now cold food, and spent the rest of the day in each other’s familiar company. Jaskier sat on the couch and played melodies he remembered from listening the night before, as best he could on an instrument very different from those used in the songs, and Geralt dutifully searched out the songs he asked for to play again. Jaskier muttered to himself about differences in tone and the effect that changing the instrument had on each song, and Geralt found a notepad and pen for him to write down his thoughts on. Eventually, Geralt handed his phone over to Jaskier and went to heat up the last of the cans of food he had stashed in the kitchen. He really would have to stock up in the morning. 

After the food was warm, Geralt coaxed Jaskier away from his lute to sit at the kitchen bench again. Once his attention was drawn away, he seemed to blink hard, and come back to himself, as though he had not noticed time passing. 

“Oh, yes, I am rather hungry, now that you mention it.” He peered around the room, taking in the changed light and the already warmed up food. “Has it really been that long? No wonder I’m so stiff. What is that anyway?” As always, Jaskier did not actually require an answer to continue his monologue. “It smells rather suspicious, actually. Are you sure it’s okay to eat?”

“Hm,” Geralt was sure it was still okay to eat. But only because he checked the dates on the cans.

Jaskier took a small nibble of the food, “Eugh, it’s not _quite_ as bad as what we eat when funds are getting perilously low, but _definitely_ not as good as everything else we’ve had since I arrived.”

“Shut up and eat, bard.” Geralt growled. 

Jaskier gave him a sunny smile, “You can’t fool me now, you _missed_ me. You _longed_ for me.” At this, he dramatically clutched his chest and pretended to swoon. “The witcher, Geralt of Rivia, does, in fact, not just tolerate my company, nay, he _enjoys_ it!”

Once the food was eaten, with many complaints from Jaskier, Geralt left Jaskier muttering at his phone while he went to take a shower while there was still warm water. He knew full well that if he let Jaskier have the first shower, he would be stuck with frigid water yet again. 

When he came back out, Jaskier seemed to have discovered Youtube, and was watching live music performances, and music videos. “I’m sure these make more sense when you understand the lyrics, but some of these just seem _odd_.” He glanced up, “Geralt! Do the lyrics make all the people dancing in strange leather outfits make more sense? Surely they do.”

Geralt could hear the faint strains of Alejandro coming from the phone. “They really don't.”

Jaskier scowled, “Well, how am I to figure out how to create music people will listen to if none of the presentation makes sense?”

“You’ll figure it out.” Geralt sighed. “Plug the phone in when you decide you need to sleep.”

He had not long settled under the covers, listening to the music Jaskier was finding, before he heard the sounds stop, and Jaskier muttering to himself as he attempted to plug in the phone. He dozed while listening to Jaskier turn on the shower and putter about in the bathroom. Finally, Jaskier came into the room, not bothering to be quiet, as he knew from long experience that with Geralt’s witcher senses that it would make no difference, and rummaged around for the clothes he had worn to bed the night before. Geralt’s mouth dried up as Jaskier let the towel drop and bent over to slide on the sweatpants. Earlier, he had been too relieved to have any measure of forgiveness from Jaskier to react with any heat, but now, watching him unashamedly nude, Geralt could not help but think back to how it had felt to hold him, to have his slighter frame against his own, just barely shorter than him. His warmth and solidity, the way the calluses on his fingertips caught on the fabric of Geralt’s shirt. And in a moment, he was going to slide into bed with Geralt. 

Geralt rolled onto his side, so that he was facing away from the middle of the bed. No need to make Jaskier uncomfortable when they had only just begun to reconcile. His feelings were his own problem, and he would not burden Jaskier with them. 

Jaskier settled onto the other side of the bed, and between the sounds of his breathing, the warmth of him and the familiar smell of him nearby, Geralt again slipped easily into sleep. 

***

Jaskier woke without the previous day’s disorientation. He was on a soft mattress and warm, and he could feel Geralt tucked behind him on the bed. He was curled around Jaskier, touching from where his knees were tucked in behind Jaskier’s own, all the way up to where he was breathing evenly into the back of Jaskier’s neck, and with his arm flung over his waist, pulling him even closer. It was a far cry from how they had gone to sleep the night before. 

Hearing Geralt admit his regret had helped immensely, and a petty part of him had needed to hear that Geralt had suffered for his words. And Geralt clearly had suffered for it. He had been so obviously trying to make amends ever since seeing Jaskier again, that he had no doubt that the witcher felt just as deeply as he had said he did. It had helped, too, to have verbalised some of his frustration, and anger. 

Jaskier lingered in bed, loath to leave an embrace he had wanted for so very long, but eventually could not lie still any longer. His movement must have disturbed Geralt, who’s breathing sped up and muscles tensed momentarily before he rolled over and out of the bed. Geralt stretched, and, as he was facing away, Jaskier unashamedly watched the muscles in his back as they tightened and released. 

“We’ll need to get food this morning. I haven’t got any left here.” Geralt said, as he dug out clothes to wear for the day. All black. Typical. So many vibrant colours to choose from, and he’s still wearing nothing but black. 

Jaskier started rummaging for his own clothes. “So we’re going to the markets?” He asked distractedly. He had seen people wearing both complementary colours in their clothing, as well as highly contrasting ones. In the end he selected a pale green shirt, and the purple trousers that Geralt handed him the day before, unable to resist wearing a colour he would never before have been able to afford. 

Geralt grunted in reply. 

Jaskier should not have taken Geralt’s grunt as an affirmative. They had, much to his relief, not travelled by motorbike again. Geralt had led him to a small store that smelled of something intriguing that turned out to taste bitter and awful, but had also sold both sweet and savoury pastries. Now that he was standing in the supermarket, he was regretting not asking for more details about where they were going. The lighting was the same as the unsettling evenness of the shop the day before, and there was a dazzling array of fresh fruit and vegetables, some of which he had never seen at the same time, because they grew at such different times of the year, and some that he had never seen before at all. He picked up a fearsome looking plant-thing, yellow at the bottom and fading to brown near the top, with spines all over, and spiky green leaves coming from the top. “What is this? Is this a weapon? Is it food?”

“It’s pineapple.” Geralt said, and took it from his hand and placed it in the metal wire cart he had collected at the front of the store. “It’s fruit. Sweet. A bit tart.”

Geralt hustled them past without picking up any more of the fresh produce, and into another section of the store that contained all manner of baked goods. 

Jaskier stood in front of an entire _wall_ of bread. “Why, for Melitele’s sake, is there so much bread? What possible reason is there for _that many_ kinds? It’s bread!”

Geralt shrugged and reached around him to grab a loaf with a plain wrapper and toss it into the cart, then kept moving. Jaskier’s head was swivelling from side to side, trying to take in all the bright packaging, and the sheer size of the place. He wasn’t paying attention to where he was walking, and bumped into a woman who was standing in front of a shelf of sweet looking pastries. She spoke sharply and he put his hands up in surrender, and stumbled back. Suddenly, her eyes widened at something behind Jaskier and she said something that sounded slightly alarmed as she reached out to him. Jaskier glanced behind himself, and perked up a bit when he saw Geralt there, scowling at the woman. 

“Geralt! Where did you wander off to?” Jaskier asked.

“Where did _I_ -?” Geralt cut himself off. “Never mind.” And with that he turned and walked off again, this time with Jaskier following. The next section Geralt led him to had cold air coming from the brightly lit shelves, filled with different cuts of meat. 

Jaskier picked up a tray with chunks of some sort of red meat on it, “I take it the writing tells you what kind of meat it is?” He sighed. He had been trying not to think too hard about having to learn to read and write again, especially given how often he had been seeing writing on signs and products; it seemed that everyone was expected to be able to read. 

Geralt nodded. “That’s beef.” He put the tray in the cart and grabbed some more of them as well. Geralt walked a little further along and picked up a different meat, this one a much paler shade of pink, “And this one is chicken.”

Jaskier choked, “ _Chicken?_ How do they expect to sell that much chicken meat? Surely it’s too expensive for most people!”

“It’s cheaper than beef now.” Geralt answered, with a slight smile, probably predicting the squwak that Jaskier makes in response to his answer. 

Geralt took them down a few more aisles, plucking things off shelves and placing them in the cart, then took them towards a section where the shelves had glass doors on them. As soon as he opened one, it became apparent that the doors were to keep the freezing air in. It was here that he filled the rest of the cart, with brightly coloured packages showing a variety of things that Jaskier lost track of, before turning the cart towards the exit of the store.

Jaskier walked back with Geralt in a daze. Every time he thought he was starting to get a handle on all the strangeness of this new place, something else came along and tripped him up. First the way words had changed, then the strange clothes and dyes, now how very different even food was. 

Once they returned to Geralt’s home, Jaskier sat on the couch and plucked distractedly at the lute while Geralt busied himself putting food away and preparing what looked to be a stew for later.

They both looked up when there was a knock on the door. Jaskier raised an eyebrow at Geralt, who shook his head and went to answer it. Jaskier couldn’t see who was at the door from his place on the couch, but didn’t bother to move, because he had no reason to believe it would be anyone he would recognise, anyway. To his surprise, he recognised the voice, and Geralt stepped back to let the visitor in. Jaskier scowled when he recognised the young mage who’s fault his predicament was in the first place. Reynard, wasn’t it?

Reynard at least looked nervous to be standing in Geralt’s space, and couldn’t hold his gaze. Eventually, his eyes settled on Jaskier, and he exclaimed something before making a peculiar gesture in his direction that caused some sparks, but no other noticeable effect. 

Reynard hadn’t even lowered his arm before Geralt had him pinned to the wall, between the door and the painting of buttercups that Jaskier still needed to ask Geralt about. 

“What did you do?” Geralt growled.

Reynard seemed to be trying to become one with the wall behind him,“Yennefer told me to fix it! So I fixed it!” To Jaskier’s astonishment, Reynard’s answer was perfectly understandable, “I think! Did it work?” The pitch of his voice was getting higher and higher. “Please tell me it worked!”

Jaskier set his lute aside and stood up, “Yennefer told you? She’s still around? Please tell me she has aged, at least a little. Please.” He wandered closer, watching Geralt’s reaction. His lips had thinned.

Reynard perked up when Jaskier spoke. “So it did work! I’ll just be going now.” He tried to edge towards the door, and away from Geralt. 

“No, no, I want to know _exactly_ what you did.” Jaskier said, as he pushed the door closed firmly. 

“Well- Well. I.” Reynard rubbed his hands on his trousers. “You see, I. I knew that you couldn’t understand what anyone was saying. And that no one could understand you. So. I just made it so that you hear everything in a way you understand, and everyone else hears you in a way that they understand.” His eyes darted from Jaskier to Geralt and back again, and he made a nervous little grin. “So can I go now?”

Geralt glanced over at Jaskier, and took a small step back from the mage. Not far enough that he couldn’t easily grab him, but a small step back, nevertheless. Reynard seemed to take that as an affirmative, and started moving towards the door again, and closer to Jaskier. 

Jaskier spoke very quietly. “You made it so I don’t hear the actual words other people have said.”

“Y-yes?” Reynard licked his lips. “So you can understand them?”

“And how accurate is this translation, exactly?” Jaskier’s eyes were narrowed, and his voice was still very, very quiet. “Does it translate idioms? Rhymes? Metaphor? Does it keep the rhythm of the phrase? Please, tell me. I need to know _exactly_ how badly you’ve fucked me.”

It must have dawned on Reynard that Geralt was not the more dangerous person in the room at that moment, and he looked to the witcher to rescue him. Geralt was leaning on the wall with his arms crossed, a small smile on his face.

“Ahh,” Reynard stammered. “Ahh, I don’t know?”

“Was that a question?” Jaskier asked. “I just can’t tell. Who knows how accurate this translation is, after all.”

“I don’t know, okay!” Reynard held his empty hands up in front of him, “I just looked up a translation spell and used that!”

“Now, I know you know that I’m a bard, Reynard.” Jaskier said, pleasantly. “Do you know what a bard _does_?

“They sing songs?” Reynard guessed.

“Yes, they sing songs. They _write_ songs. The music. And the lyrics.” Jaskier squared his shoulders and straightened to his not-inconsiderable full height. Usually he was underestimated. Usually people saw an entertainer, and the deliberately harmless manner he adopted, and compared him to the much more intimidating Geralt, and thought he was not a threat. It was easy to forget how tall and broad shouldered he was, when one was comparing him to a witcher. Reynard looked like he was starting to remember being menaced with the first weapon that came to hand, and that this was a man from a much more dangerous time than his own.

“You- you could still do that?” Reynard offered, and tried to creep back towards Geralt, who gave him a little shove back towards Jaskier.

Jaskier clenched his fists, then let out a slow breath, and relaxed them. “Could I though? Come now. You’re educated. Could I? Not knowing how it will sound to others, could I compose a song? Not knowing the rhythm they would hear, if the metaphors would land, could I compose a song?” His voice had slowly crept up in volume until it was near a shout. “But then, the consequences of your actions haven’t exactly been your first priority, have they?”

“Alright! I’ll take it off!” Reynard yelped. “I’ll look for a better solution. I’m sorry! I’ll even check with Yennefer before I do any other spells, if it’ll make you feel better, even though that woman is terrifying. Just please let me go?”

Jaskier nodded, and waited for Reynard to take the spell off. 

Afterwards, Reynard said something that, mercifully, Jaskier couldn’t understand and, finally, Jaskier stepped aside and let him run from the apartment. 

***

For all Geralt’s day had started with him panicking about cuddling Jaskier like some sort of teddy bear in his sleep, it had so far been fairly pleasant. The look on his face at his first taste of coffee had him hiding his smile behind his own cup, and listening to his reaction to the supermarket had been entertaining. He was rather looking forward to waiting until Jaskier tried the pineapple to tell him that pineapples digest you back. 

Having Jaskier to focus on made going out in public more tolerable. People still reacted to him with fear, and avoided him as much as possible, but they also relaxed a little when they saw how casual Jaskier was with him. When the sights, sounds and smells of a busy city threatened to become overwhelming, being able to narrow his attention down to just one person helped tremendously. It felt invasive to focus his heightened witcher sense on the details of most other people, but Jaskier had long since given him permission, after hunts gone poorly, after hunts gone much easier than expected that left him on edge with adrenaline and potions and nothing left to fight, and in busy market places. 

The only thing Jaskier wasn’t still able to do that helped him while out in public, was do most of the talking. Reynard’s ‘solution’ hardly deserved the name, however. The little idiot clearly had not thought it through at all. Geralt had enjoyed watching Jaskier schooling the mage on how very stuipd he was. So much so that while watching, he had to shift his posture to ensure that no one noticed how _much_ he had enjoyed watching the bard use his words as weapons. 

“Feel a bit better?” Geralt inquired.

Jaskier thought for a moment. “Yes, actually. You know, actually expressing your feelings can do wonders for your emotional state.” He grinned, “Not that you would know from experience.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Geralt answered with a slight smile.

Jaskier threw up his hands in mock exasperation, and started walking back to where he left the lute on the couch. “Of course you wouldn’t consider talking things out. Never mind that we _did_ , just yesterday, and it helped.” Jaskier was still grinning at him over his shoulder, so Geralt wasn’t concerned that he was taking his words seriously.

“Yes,” Geralt mused, and followed him. “It is rather backwards that I’ve been doing all the talking for you, isn’t it?” He took a seat on the couch next to Jaskier, knees not quite touching.

“We need to start fixing that. Sooner rather than later.” Jaskier said, smile sliding off his face. 

Geralt awkwardly replied, “You’ll figure it out. You’re not usually completely stupid.” He cringed as the words came out of his mouth. 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Jaskier snorted, then paused, and licked his lips. He opened his mouth as if to speak again, then stopped. His eyes flicked down to Geralt’s mouth, he set aside the lute, and he surged forwards. 

For a moment, Geralt let himself enjoy the kiss, felt the warmth of Jaskier’s arm through the sleeve of his shirt, where he had instinctively reached out to steady him, the feel of Jaskier’s hands threaded through his hair, the skill he was using to ensure Geralt responded, alternating light pecks with heavier, deeper kisses. 

As Jaskier shifted closer on the couch, their legs touching, Geralt tore himself away and stood up. Jaskier was entirely dependent on him. He had no way of communicating with anyone else, no other connections to the world, and Jaskier needed him. Were circumstances different, there was no way Jaskier would be kissing him. Long ago, Geralt had told Jaskier that the last thing he wanted was someone needing him. He had since learned that sometimes he didn’t get to choose when someone needed him, but it was still true. He still didn’t want it, and this was why. How could he know how much of Jaskier’s interest was genuine, and how much was motivated by needing him? 

“No. Not while you’re reliant on me.” Geralt managed between heaving breaths. 

Jaskier’s eyes narrowed dangerously, “Are you trying to say that I cannot know my own mind?”

Geralt ran his hand through his hair, flustered, “No. But there is no one else you could go to. And I won’t put you in that position.”

Jaskier’s shoulders slumped, “Geralt, I know you. I’ve known you for decades. Just because we’re in a different place, doesn’t mean I don’t know you, and know myself. You aren’t taking advantage.”

“Not now.” Geralt pleaded. “Wait until you have your feet under you. Until, if you want, you _can_ leave. Then, if you still want. We can try.” There was every chance that, even if Jaskier was entirely uninfluenced by his circumstances, he would change his mind once he got to know the man he had become over the centuries. And he was the only person in the entire world that Jaskier knew right now. As soon as he was able to talk to other people, Jaskier would find someone far more interesting, and less frustrating, than a witcher who struggled to communicate anything of import. 

“Fine.” Jaskier sighed. “But I’m holding you to that.”

***

The next two days were spent lounging around Geralt’s apartment. By the evening of the kiss that Geralt refused to dwell on, Jaskier had wheedled Geralt into repeating everything he said in the more modern form of the language. It had the unintended effect of making Geralt even less verbose than usual. He understood Jaskier’s desire to learn, but it slowed any conversation to a crawl, and he would much rather just listen to Jaskier. 

On the evening of the second day, there was another knock on the door, and Geralt opened it to find Reynard again. He was even more disheveled than usual, with his shirt half tucked in, mismatched shoes and his hair sticking up in every direction. He clutched his bag close to his chest and fidgeted with the latch as he spoke. “So, I, like, pulled an overnighter trying to find a spell that would properly fix his language problem?”

Geralt politely didn’t mention that it had been two days since then.

Reynard glanced nervously behind Geralt and gulped when he spotted Jaskier. “Uh, and, um. I couldn’t find any.” He cringed, and waited for a moment before speaking again. “So, I asked for help online, and Yennefer contacted me. She is just as scary in person as she is on the TV, by the way. Which I’m sure you already know.”

Geralt stepped back to let Reynard in. If Yennefer had okayed whatever it was he was here for, it was probably worthwhile listening to his rambling until he got to the point.

Reynard hesitantly stepped into the apartment, warily watching Jaskier, “Anyway, she taught me a spell that she says will fix it properly. And, really, she didn’t have to make me go over it _that_ many times. I’m not incompetent!”

Geralt looked at him with disbelief, “You fucked up a spell so badly you brought someone forward in time by more than seven hundred years.”

“I did n- okay, yeah, I did do that.” Reynard conceded. “But! It was a very complex and difficult spell! It’s so hard it hardly ever gets done at all, that’s why there was no way I could have known what would happen.”

“Get to the point.” Geralt ground out.

“Right, okay, so I think it would be best if I used that first spell on Jaskier, so that I can explain this new one, and decide for himself.” Reynard started off confident for the first time since he arrived, then trailed off hesitantly, “If that’s okay?”

Once Geralt had explained what Reynard wanted to do, Jaskier reluctantly agreed. As he did so, Reynard started pulling various herbs and vials out of the bag he had been clutching with a death grip and setting them out on the kitchen bench. Having something to do with his hands seemed to settle Reynard, and once he had cast the spell, he began explaining.

“The problem with the first spell is that it just conveys meaning, it doesn’t keep the sound of the words and things like that.” Reynard flicked his hand dismissively, “Great for, like, when you’re on holiday and just want to ask where the nearest hotel is, not great for fussy stuff.”

Jaskier scowled at him when Reynard described his entire profession as ‘fussy stuff’.

Reynard hurried on with his explanation. “What _this_ spell does, is takes the understanding of words from one person and gives them to another person. Without, like, removing the knowledge from the person who already had it.”

“You want to take someone else’s thoughts and put them in my head.” Jaskier said, flatly.

“No! No, no, no, that’s not it.” Reynard rushed to clarify. “No, it’s just the connections between words. You’d get, at most, some of their associations. Say, if they had a strong association between, I don’t know,” he cast about the room for an example, and landed on the painting of buttercups, “buttercups and ah-”

“Music.” Geralt interrupted.

Reynard looked at him oddly. “Yeah, okay, between buttercups and music, you would get that association as well.”

Jaskier relaxed a little, “Alright. That would possibly help me, really, knowing which words are likely to elicit a strong reaction from an audience.”

“Who’s mind would you be taking the knowledge from, mage?” Geralt asked.

Reynard rubbed the back of his head, making it clear how his hair had gotten into the state it was in. “Well. You see, the spell requires that the, ah, ‘donor’ can speak a language the recipient already understands. So. You.” He didn’t look at either of them, “So I’d need permission from both of you.”

The look Jaskier gave him was inscrutable. “We’ll talk between ourselves, and let you know.” Then he turned and walked into the bedroom.

“What do you think?” Jaskier asked, leaning against the wall beside the door.

“I think it’s up to you. You’ve started learning on your own. You don’t have to.” Geralt said.

Jaskier snorted, “With how little you’ve been talking, I might be able to have a conversation some time in the next decade. This is probably the best chance for me. But what about you? What if it actually does harm you?”

“Yen gave him the spell. I don’t doubt it works the way he says it does.” Geralt went and sat on the bed.

“Why not just come and do the spell herself? Surely that would be less time consuming for her?” Jaksier’s brow wrinkled.

With a wry grin, Geralt answered, “But less amusing. This way, she knows we have to put up with the little reprobate. And I’m sure she’d come fix it if he does fuck it up.”

“Ah. Yes, that does sound like Yennefer.” Jaskier straightened. “So we’re going to do it?”

Geralt nodded, and walked back into the main room.

As soon as he was given the okay, Reynard started pouring unidentifiable liquids into a bowl, adding herbs so pungent Geralt was sure even Jaskier could smell them from where he was watching from the other side of the apartment, and mixing the whole foul concoction. Finally, he split the resulting mix into two bowls and straightened up. “You’ll both need to drink this, first Geralt, then Jaskier, and have skin to skin contact the whole time.”

“And that’s it? I’ll be able to understand what everyone is saying?” Jaskier asked, warily.

“Yep. You should feel a bit of a tingle, and it’ll be done. Oh. I need to take the translation spell off first.” Reynard made a slight gesture with his hand.

Geralt eyed the potion. He was used to swallowing noxious potions, but he never looked forward to them. He held out one hand for a bowl, and the other for Jaskier’s hand. When he had both, with a slight curl of his lip, he tipped back his head and swallowed the potion as quickly as he could manage. Jaskier followed suit, and swiftly made a gagging noise.

“Oh, that is _foul_. And here I thought that the still muddy worm I ate when I was six was the worst thing I could ever taste, but that really does take that cake, does-” Jaskier’s complaints were suddenly cut off. 

Reynard had neglected to mention that the ‘bit of a tingle’ they would experience would be in their _brains_. As novel sensations went, it was one of the more uncomfortable. 

A beat of silence, then Reynard apparently couldn’t help himself, “Did it work? Please tell me it worked. I don’t want to have to see Yennefer again.”

“It worked.” Jaskier confirmed, “Though I must say, having Geralt’s associations to the word ‘Yennefer’ is interesting. Not what I expected.”

If Geralt could have flushed, he would have, “We work better as friends. We always hurt each other too much, back then.”

Reynard’s eyebrows rose, “And as terrifying as both you and Yennefer are, what you just implied is both scary, and super hot. I’m so glad it worked. I mean. Last time I got a spell wrong the first time it was nasty.” He pulled a face. “I am never going to be able to unsee that.”

“What are you talking about? Wasn’t me turning up the last time you got a spell wrong?” Jaskier asked, sounding offended.

“Oh, no, that was the second time I tried the spell.” Reynard held up two fingers, as though he thought they wouldn’t be able to understand them without a demonstration. “Apparently, that’s why it brought you here, instead of just letting me talk to you for a bit. The first time I got the timing a bit off.”

“What do you mean by you ‘got the timing a bit off’?” Geralt asked.

Reynard started packing his supplies back into his bag, “Well, I picked Jaskier because he was well known enough of a historical figure that I could find sufficient details to focus the spell on him, but minor enough that if I freaked him out, it wouldn’t change things. And I wanted to talk to him after he fell out with the Countess de Stael, but there’s a lot of debate about when that actually happened.” Reynard seemed to have forgotten that he was talking about someone who was in the room, and not a long dead historical figure. “So I thought, there’s no records of him after late 1262, so I’ll just contact him in 1263! But it turns out that the reason there’s no records after that is that he died. Well. Died makes it sound nicer than it was.”

Reynard glanced up and jolted when he saw Jaskier and was reminded that the person he was talking about was there, and judging him. “I think you’d been dead for a few days when my spell found you.” He said apologetically, “Or, at least, I hope so. Because if all of those wounds and burns happened while you were still alive.” Reynard cringed just thinking of it. “There were some soldiers nearby. Nilfgaard, I think.”

“Nilfgaard. It’s my fault.” Geralt felt sick at the thought.

“ _Your_ fault? Have we gone from everything being my fault, to everything being your fault now?” Jaskier had his hands on his hips, and an unimpressed look on his face.

Geralt could hardly look at Jaskier. “They were after me. You were tortured to death because they were looking for me and Ciri, and you couldn’t have told them what they wanted to know to save yourself, even if you wanted to, after everything I did.”

Jaskier reached out and gently turned Geralt’s face to him, “Hey, it’s okay. I’m here. I’m fine.” He smoothed the hair out of Geralt’s face. “That’s not what happened. And even if I had known where you were, I wouldn’t have told them.”

Geralt softly rested his forehead on Jaskier’s, his still loose hair trailing on Jaskier’s cheeks. 

Reynard loudly cleared his throat. “I’ll just be going now.” He jerked his thumb towards the door, and lugged his bag out of the door, closing it loudly behind himself. 


	2. Harmony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was too impatient to wait a whole week, so have the rest of it, plus epilogue, early.

The next day, Jaskier was enjoying the added options the computer gave him, now that he could read the way things were written on it, thanks to the spell. Geralt was doing the gods only knew what with several bits of what he said were armour, but which looked very different to any armour Jaskier had ever seen before. Jaskier was still a little stunned that his gamble of kissing Geralt had paid off. He felt a little off balance, knowing for sure that his vague suspicions, formed over the last few days, that Geralt felt something more than simple friendship for him, when he had been so sure, for the entire twenty-two years he had known him, that Geralt felt nothing of the sort. He had loved Geralt for at least a decade, wanted him since the beginning, and been entirely certain that it was hopeless. To know that Geralt wanted him, and the only thing holding him back was his overdeveloped sense of honour was like something out of a dream.

Jaskier’s confusion about something called ‘Cutthroat Kitchen’, which got progressively more strange as the episode went on, was interrupted by a strange, bell like sound that repeated until Geralt set down his armour, picked up his phone and grunted into it. After a moment of listening, he scowled and snapped, “Fine. Where?” before listening some more and then jabbing his finger at the screen. 

“I have to deal with a selkimore in Orlagor.” Geralt was clearly angry about it, and was far from gentle about opening a wooden trunk behind the couch and yanking his swords out. “I’ll be at least four days.”

Jaskier’s brow furrowed, “Only four days? But Orlagor is in Cintra. It would take more than a week to get there. And isn’t there a witcher closer?”

“No. There are even fewer of us left. And you might have noticed that travel is a lot faster now?” Geralt paused in his packing long enough to turn his full attention to Jaskier. “You will be fine by yourself?”

“Yes, Geralt, I think I can take care of myself for four days. I have spent considerable time without you, you know.” Jaskier’s scowl now rivaled Geralt’s. 

“Not here, you haven’t. I know you can take care of yourself when you know the lay of the land. But you don’t here.” Geralt paused for a moment, and licked his lips. “If you need it, there is a false back in the cupboard I store my potions in. I keep some money in there.”

Jaskier determined immediately that he would not even consider touching it. He had taken more than enough charity from Geralt the last few days. 

After some more unwanted fussing over Jaskier, Geralt was out the door within the half hour, and Jaskier was left alone for the first time in the unfamiliar new world. It only took a few minutes of fidgeting before Jaskier was back to watching some unfortunate chefs attempt to cook from inside some sort of structure intended for cats. 

It took all of half an hour before Jaskier was gathering his lute and heading out to find somewhere to play, and perhaps earn himself some of his own spending money. He was not a man accustomed to keeping his own company. 

After three establishments in a row asked him to leave, with varying levels of politeness, Jaskier slowly headed back to Geralt’s apartment. At least when he first started out, people would at least throw food at him! Clearly he had more research to do regarding the entertainment of the masses, and from what one proprietor had told him as he was asking him to leave, how one set about being asked to perform, before he would be able to turn a profit. The trouble was, he didn’t know where to start gathering the information he needed. Perhaps Geralt would be able to point him to someone who could help when he returned. 

By the second day by himself, Jaskier had thoroughly exhausted the entertainment value of the cooking show he had been watching, and had moved on to various other television shows. The one he was watching when a break in the monotony finally came, seemed to feature a rather overwrought love triangle between three individuals, who were nominally teenaged, and attending an educational facility, for all that they never seemed to attend any classes. There was a rather bulky sportsman, a beautiful girl, and another, somewhat less muscle bound young man, who clearly was head over heels for the sportsman. Personally, Jaskier was rooting for the slighter boy to get his man, so to speak, but he didn’t think the narrative was heading that way. And there was something familiar he couldn’t put his finger on about the music that was being played during certain scenes. 

Jaskier was so relieved to hear the knock at the door, that he didn’t even care who it was. 

When he flung open the door, Reynard was clutching his bag strap again and shifting from foot to foot. “Hi! Just who I wanted to see.” He glanced behind him. “I actually wanted to ask you a favour.” Reynard darted another glance behind Jaskier. 

“Geralt’s not here.” Jaskier reassured him.

Reynard let go of his bag strap and let his shoulders slump a little. “Oh, thank goodness. I mean. Um.” He tensed up again, “I know _you_ aren’t terrified of him. For some reason. It’s just. He’s really very-” He cut himself off. “I wanted to ask you a favour.” He tried again, “I kinda completely flunked that history assignment I had. And my lecturer has told me that the only way I’m passing is if I bring you to the next lecture. I don’t think he believes that I actually brought you here.” He suddenly grinned smugly, “But I got it in writing.”

Jaskier threw his head back to laugh. “How can I not support you getting one over on your lecturer? When is it?”

“Um. An hour?” He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “I talked myself into and out of coming so many times I almost ran out of time to ask. But I figured, better to ask to find out if it will be a no?”

“Yeah, alright. Let me just grab my jacket.” Jaskier darted back into the apartment and grabbed his jacket and thought for a moment and snagged his lute as well, before heading back to the door as quickly as he could manage. “Let’s go.”

Jaskier spent most of the trip there fidgeting with as many of the controls on the dashboard of Reynard’s car as he could reach, watching with glee as Reynard got more and more agitated about it, but didn’t dare say anything. When they finally arrived, Reynard slammed the door harder than necessary and stalked off towards one of the buildings.

Jaskier hitched his lute over his shoulder and trailed behind him, comparing the campus with how it was when he attended. There were a few buildings in the same places, and to his surprise, some were even clearly the same structures. There were many more buildings than he remembered, and most of them much larger than any that had been there before, rendering the place almost, but not quite, unrecognisable. It was like something out of a strange dream. 

Reynard paused just inside the doors of one of the original buildings to make sure Jaskier was still following, then led the way to the largest lecture hall at the back of the building. 

An older man was at the front of the hall, shuffling paper around. He glanced up when the door opened, and scowled when he saw Reynard walk in, followed by Jaskier. “Oh come now. I know I said I would pass you if you brought Julian Pankratz to today’s lecture, but you can’t possibly be desperate enough to pay one of your friends to pretend.”

Jaskier leaned on the wall near the front row with his arms crossed and smirked at him, “What makes you so sure I’m pretending?”

The lecturer scoffed, “Honestly, the chances are so slim as to be nearly non-existent. If you want me to believe you really are Julian Pankratz, you’ll-” he glanced down at the notes in his hand, “You’ll be able to perform ‘Toss A Coin’ with perfect pronunciation. There are no modern performances that have been able to correctly replicate some of those consonant sounds.” He looked at Jaskier with triumph. 

Jaskier laughed and carefully pulled his lute from it’s case. “If my performance doesn’t convince you, then I think letting you know that you can verify my identity with both Geralt of Rivia, and Yennefer of Vengerberg should. I doubt even these days anyone would be so bold as to make the claim that both would vouch for them, without it being true.” Then he strummed the first chord. As he began to sing, the smug look slid off the lecturer’s face, to be replaced by awe. 

“You really are- Oh my goodness. Oh.” He briefly turned to Reynard, “Yes, alright, you can have your pass. I have no idea how you managed it, but you can have your pass.” He turned back to Jaskier, eyes wide, “Would you kindly stay for the lecture? And contribute any details that may come up?”

“Anything for a fan.” Jaskier said, with a bow. At least some people in the future appreciated his talent.

Shortly after, students began to trickle into the hall, some of them giving Jaskier curious looks as they took their seats. One bolder student called out, “Hey, Morrison! Who’s the guest speaker? There wasn’t anything in the syllabus about a guest speaker today. Aren’t you the foremost expert on Julian Pankratz?”

At that, Jaskier bounced up from his chair and offered her a courtly bow, and kissed the back of her hand, “Julian Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, renowned bard, at your service. Here today thanks to some rather impressively mismanaged magic.”

She looked to Morrison with a dubious expression, which he returned with a nod filled with barely restrained glee. Her eyes widened and she quickly took a front row seat. It was very nice to see that, despite his reception in the cafes the day before, people were still fans of his work.

Eventually the hall was half full, and at some unknown cue Morrison cleared his throat and the noise died down somewhat. “I am quite excited to announce that for our lecture today, we have present the only person more knowledgable on today’s topic than myself! Let me present, Julian Pankratz!”

Jaskier jumped up from his chair again and bowed, “It’s true! One of the more useless of your number fouled up a spell, and pulled me from my own time.” He glanced ostentatiously at Reynard, then continued, “Fortunately, someone thought to contact Yennefer of Vengeberg, who sent Geralt to fetch me, and I stand before you today prepared to answer any queries, correct any misconceptions!” He spread his arms out wide and grinned at the crowd. It felt good to perform for an audience again.

Jaskier graciously waved at Morrison to commence his lecture and sat down in the front row again.

Morrison cleared his throat and began. “As you no doubt know from reading your syllabus.” He peered around the room, clearly dubious that most of his students had, in fact read the syllabus. From the awkward shuffling, he was correct. “Today’s lecture is on the life, and work, of Julian Pankratz, also known as Jaskier.” 

Morrison continued talking, but Jaskier had stopped listening. He had almost forgotten that the spell that gave him Geralt’s knowledge of the language most of the people around him were speaking also gave him Geralt's associations with specific words. And apparently, Geralt associated his name with a lot of feelings. There were so many, and so intense that he was overwhelmed with them, and it was difficult to single any out, and identify them. There was an intense feeling of guilt, and regret, and longing. But also affection, and other positive emotions. It took a moment to realise the irritation was also from Geralt, rather than the monotone sound of Morrison lingering over the details of where and when Jaskier was born and grew up. Amused, Jaskier started paying attention to the lecture again.

Morrison must have reached some information he found significant, because he paused importantly, then continued, “We have the privilege today of learning in the very same hall that Jaskier learned in during his time studying here, at Oxenfurt University.”

From his seat, Jaskier sang out, “No I didn’t. It was the one next door.”

Morrison faltered a moment, then continued, “I stand corrected. In the same building, then.” 

Jaskier only half listened, slumped in his chair, as Morrison went over his university days in excruciating detail. Jaskier started paying attention again when he moved on to his career.

“The first composition of Julian Pankratz’s that we still have records of is ‘Toss A Coin To Your Witcher’.” Jaskier was amused to note that Morrison mispronounced both Witcher and Toss. No wonder he was so convinced that no one could perform his song correctly, if the supposed ‘foremost expert’ couldn’t even pronounce the title. 

With a glance down at his notes, Morrison continued, “‘Toss A Coin To Your Witcher’ was written and popularised in 1241, and first performed in Vizima.”

Jaskier noisily cleared his throat. “No, I wrote it in 1240. It took a while to really take off, that’s all. And I first performed it in Gulet.” There was a sudden flurry of writing in the room, and Morrison pursed his lips. “Also, you’re saying it wrong.” Jaskier repeated the title correctly, then added, “The way you’re saying it, you’re implying that you want the listener to do something obscene with a horse.” A wave of giggles swept the hall, and Morrison’s lips got even thinner. 

Taking mercy on him, Jaskier continued, in his first language, “Would you like to practice speaking a little? Could help fix some of your consonant sounds.”

Only delayed by a moment, Morrison replied in the same language, “I would be delighted. Perhaps over coffee after the lecture?”

Jaskier looked at him incredulously. He had thought the coffee was Geralt’s idea of a prank. People really drank that? On purpose? “Why the fuck would I want to drink coffee?”

Jaskier was somewhat taken aback when Morrison reacted with excitement, slipping back into his own first language, “That word! What does it mean? There is so much debate over it’s meaning, it would settle, for good, the question of the meaning of ‘The Fishmonger’s Daughter’, because we just don’t know what it means!”

“Really?” Jaskier sniggered a little. “It means ‘fuck’.”

Morrison choked. 

“Yeah,” Jaskier continued, “That song’s about masturbation. How did you miss that?” The giggles from the students were getting louder. 

vOne of the young women in the second row leaned forward and muttered to him, “He wrote his thesis on the premise that ‘The Fishmonger’s Daughter’ is about a famine.”

“Enough!” Morrison snapped, “We really must continue with the lecture.” He gave Jaskier a poisonous look.

Well. If he was going to be a humourless prick about it, Jaskier was going to see how far he could take it. Every time there was even the most minor inaccuracy, Jaskier made a point of correcting him, and Morrison’s face became progressively more red each time he did it. 

Eventually, Morrison got to the last page of his notes, and rushed to say what he had left, “We come now to his last surviving work, ‘Her Sweet Kiss’.” He glared around the room, “Despite the rubbish that some of you are, I’m sure, convinced of, there is no serious academic debate about who this song is about. It is, clearly, about the Countess de Stael.”

At this, Jaskier threw his head back and laughed outright, “How did you all come to _that_ conclusion? The Countess threw me out, most unceremoniously, nearly a decade before I wrote that song!”

Morrison eyed him warily, “The surviving records must be muddled then. Some other lover, perhaps? Would you care to set the record straight?”

Jaskier gave him a smug smile. “Oh, someone else, yes. Certainly. Lips sweeter than Touissant wine.” Actually, they had tasted of those awful tinned beans, but that wasn’t the point.

One of the students near the back of the hall shouted, “Who?”

“Ah, that would be telling. I’m _far_ more interested in all of _your_ theories.” Jaskier leaned back, and waited for his audience to begin guessing. Names were shouted at him from all corners of the room, and he maintained his smirk at all of them. Some were names he had never heard of, others past lovers he had actually had, and one person he couldn’t see even guessed both names correctly.

By the time everyone had settled down and were starting to file out, Morrison was long gone. Clearly he no longer felt the need to practice his pronunciation. A few students lingered, watching him out of the corner of their eyes. Jaskier waited to see who would be bold enough to approach him first. 

Eventually, a shorter woman, in a dark green skirt who’s length was much closer to what Jaskier was accustomed to than most of the skirts he had been seeing lately, and a black blouse marched up to him and stuck out a hand. “I’m Sophie. I was wondering if you could clear up a debate some friends and I have been having?”

Instead of shaking the hand, as he had seen people doing lately, Jaskier bent over and placed a swift kiss on the back. “I’m sure I can try. What is the debate about?”

Sophie raised an eyebrow at his flirting and took her hand back. “We’ve been trying to figure out if, during the 1200s inns and taverns were more likely to use metal bowls and cups, or wooden ones.”

“That’s definitely not the kind of question I was expecting. Dare I ask why you want to know?” Jaskier laughed.

“We’re historical reenactors. We want to make it as accurate as possible. And since I can get a definitive answer, why not ask?” Sophie explained. “Speaking of. What _is_ the answer?”

“Wooden bowls. Metal cups.” Jaskier cocked his head and said, “And a question in return. I have been unable to find any clothing with lace on it that isn’t cut to emphasise certain lovely attributes that I simply have not got.” He waved a hand at the lace trim on her blouse and skirt, “You, however, are wearing quite a bit of it. Wherever did you find it?”

“I sewed it on myself, actually. Which, if you want lace on your clothing, you’ll have to do that yourself these days, too.” Sophie said, “Men’s clothing doesn’t have things like that added to it any more.”

“Geralt told me that people don’t do that anymore!” Jaskier said, indignant. “That bastard. I knew he just wanted to leave the shop.”

Sophie laughed, “It’s not commonly done anymore, but it is still done. If you like, you can give me your email address and I can send you links to a few places that do custom alterations on clothing.”

“My what?” Jaskier asked, mystified.

“You really haven’t been here long, have you?” Sophie thought for a moment. “Alright. New plan. I shout you a cup of tea, while I set you up with an email address and show you how it works. _Then_ I’ll send you the links. You’ll need an email address sooner or later anyway. Sound good?”

Jaskier thought for a moment. “Why not?” He raised his voice slightly, “Reynard takes me all sorts of places. The future. The other side of the city. I’m sure he won't mind waiting to take me back once we’re done.”

Reynard mumbled something that might have been agreement.

Several hours later, Jaskier was back in Geralt’s apartment, clutching a scrap of note paper with his own email address on it, and even knew what an email address was now. He even had some ideas of where to start the research he needed to do to start supporting himself, thanks to Sophie. The first thing to do was to find out what people thought they knew about him.

It wasn’t difficult to find a documentary on himself, although after the first five minutes he was already leaping up to get a notebook and start the film again, this time taking notes on everything they got wrong. It was extensive. Some of the inaccuracies were relatively minor, and understandable, given the amount of time that had passed, but others were simply offensive. 

Nearing the end of the documentary, his attention started to drift. Surely he had enough material to cover already. He absently continued to watch, for completeness’ sake, when it caught his attention again.

On screen, a woman in tasteful and subdued clothing was walking slowly through a library, “Arguably, however, the most notable impact Julian Pankratz had on culture was not the shift in the cultural perception of witchers, once reviled and feared, now viewed with a reasonable, wary respect, but his contribution to the romance genre.” She stopped in front of a section of books, revealing the label indicating that she was, indeed, in the romance section. 

“There are extensive records indicating that the origin of the trope colloquially known as the ‘lopsided triangle’, a trope that depicts a close friend of the hero of the story as in love with the hero, who does not see his infatuation,” The footage switched to a series of clips from a variety of films, presumably depicting the trope the woman was still talking about. One of them was clearly from the television show he had been watching the day before. “Does, in fact, stem from a misinterpretation of Pankratz’s ‘Her Sweet Kiss’.” The woman smiled at the camera, as though to invite the viewer to share her amusement at the possibility that Jaskier’s song could possibly be referring to a situation like that.

“Of course, despite a few hold outs, the academic consensus is that ‘Her Sweet Kiss’ is about Pankratz’s tumultuous affair with the Countess de Stael, and not some sort of love triangle between Pankratz, Geralt the Witcher and Yennefer of Aretuza.” Now the screen showed the same well put together woman walking through a well maintained garden, hands clasped together in front of her. “Regardless of the inaccuracy, the idea of the hero’s loyal friend hiding his romantic devotion to him persists in many different forms of media, and this misinterpretation of Pankratz’s work has been one of the most enduring impacts of his career.”

Jaskier sat on the couch, watching, mouth agape, and feeling rather exposed. There were academic debates about his heartbreak. Granted, most of the people debating it were wrong. But enough people were right about it that it had become a common trope. 

Jaskier looked down at the notebook still on his lap. He had enough material here to begin with, and hopefully start to bring himself back into the public eye, he only needed assistance obtaining the materials he would need to start making his video. Sooner than he had expected, he was using his email to arrange to meet Sophie again. 

When Jaskier slid into the chair in the small tea shop the next day, Sophie was already sitting on the bench. She pushed a plate with a decadently large slice of cake on it across the table to him. “So you’ve decided on what you are going to do first?” She asked.

“Did you know,” Jaskier began, “That there is a romantic trope based on one of my songs?”

“Yes,” She said apologetically, “But if it makes you feel any better, most people know it’s not about that?” She went back to her tea, as though to give him some privacy while he thought. 

Jaskier picked at his slice of cake. It was less of a sore topic than it had ever been, knowing that Geralt at least felt _something_ in return. When he had kissed Geralt, he had been relying on the fact that he knew that Geralt was too good a man to kick him out while he still had no way to even communicate with anyone, let alone support himself. And given how clearly he had been showing that he had missed Jaskier, he was convinced that even if Geralt did not welcome the kiss, he would be able to repair their friendship before he was able to leave. Geralt having such a passionate reaction had been beyond his wildest dreams, but Jaskier had spent an awfully long time believing that the witcher saw him as a slightly amusing nuisance at best. Knowing now that Geralt’s own self loathing was what was holding him back didn’t negate that. And yet, Geralt clearly thought Jaskier’s feelings were… new? Perhaps? Influenced by the circumstances, certainly. Telling him directly that Jaskier had loved him for at least the past decade would only make him retreat into stoicism. Geralt might have changed since Jaskier saw him last, but he hadn’t changed _that_ much. But maybe telling him indirectly would help.

“But it is. It is about that.” He bit his lip. “I’m in love with Geralt.” He hadn’t actually said it directly like that before. Perhaps in the privacy of his own head, but not out loud. “Have been for at _least_ the last ten years. Or seven hundred and sixty-eight years, depending on how you count it.”

Sophie’s eyes bugged out and she choked a little on her tea. “That was. Not what I thought you were going to say.” She watched him, eyes wide. “And you… you want to tell him?”

“Oh gods no. He’d run a mile.” Jaskier laughed. “No, I have to be sneakier than that. No, I'm going to tell everyone _else_." He ate a bite of his cake. It was intensely sweet, as most of the desserts he had tried lately had been. “I’m going to make a video refuting a lot of the misconceptions about me, and include that in it. Which will also, hopefully, get me noticed.” Jaskier grimaced. “The only stumbling block is that I don’t have any way to film it. Which is why I wanted to meet you. I hoped you would know where I might be able to get something for that.”

“That’s easy. I have a camera you can borrow until the next faire. The only condition is,” She pointed at him, “You have to help my group with our costumes. Making them historically accurate and such.” 

“You have a deal.” Jaskier reached over the table to shake Sophie’s hand. 

***

When Geralt returned to his apartment, he paused outside the door for a moment. He could hear Jaskier talking to someone inside. For a moment he was annoyed at the thought that Jaskier had brought someone back to his home, then he let it go. He knew how social Jaskier was, and asking him to stay by himself for four days was unreasonable. He had driven as fast as he could and dealt with the selkimore in record time, itching to return, and had managed it in only three days. He basked in the sound of Jaskier’s chatter. Once, he would have given anything for five minutes of silence, but now he reveled in the noise. 

He made a point of opening the door noisily, so as not to startle Jaskier and whoever he was talking to, and as he stepped through, the soundproofing no longer muffled the words and he heard, “It’s really something, isn’t it, to get to see the legacy I left behind! How I’ve been remembered centuries after I was gone, and I think I’ve done rather well, don’t you?” Jaskier was waving his hands around from his spot on the couch and was talking to a video camera. Where had he even gotten a video camera? Geralt certainly didn’t own one. 

Apparently, he needn’t have bothered making noise as he came in, because Jaskier didn’t notice he was there until he put his swords in their chest behind the couch with a thump. Jaskier startled, and spun around, greeting him with a beaming smile when he saw him. “Geralt! You’re back early.” He pouted. “And I just ruined this take. I’ll have to start again.”

“You’ve been busy.” Geralt observed, “How the fuck did you get a video camera? Did you go out and buy one?” He should have thought of that. Of course Jaskier would need a video camera to be able to promote himself these days. 

Jaskier shot him a dirty look, “No, I’m borrowing it from a friend.” Naturally Jaskier had already managed to make at least one friend. Or possibly he’d seduced someone. There was really no telling, with Jaskier. “I’m going to finish filming this explanation of how very wrong the documentary I saw is about me. Did you know that there are documentaries about me? More than one, even!” He sounded quite proud, and walked around the couch to where Geralt was standing. “Then I’m going to record some of my songs, and ask Sophie to help me edit everything.”

Geralt crossed his arms in front of himself, “Sophie is your new friend, I take it?” Of course Jaskier had already found a woman to direct his attentions to. It was always only a matter of time, before he moved on from how he thought he felt about Geralt. 

Jaskier didn’t seem to notice Geralt’s discomfort, and nodded, “She loaned me the camera, in exchange for helping her reenactment group make sure their costumes are historically accurate.” Jaskier narrowed his eyes at Geralt. “You’re holding your right shoulder stiffly. What have you done to it?”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “It’s nothing. It’ll be healed by tomorrow.”

Jaskier tugged at his shirt, “Off. You said that about the inch deep gash in your leg that one time, too.”

“And it was healed by the next day.” Geralt made no move to take his shirt off.

“That’s not the point! The point is, it hurts now, so I’m going to do something about it, since you clearly wont.” 

Geralt had _missed_ this. It was entirely unnecessary, but sometimes it was nice to be fussed over like this. Yen would leave him to deal with any injuries himself, unless they were life threatening, and Ciri cared, but even after all this time, it was the caring of a child for their parent. If he told her that he was fine, she would drop it. 

He let himself be bullied into letting Jaskier take care of him, and then he let himself be bullied into agreeing to take Jaskier back to the university the next week, to meet Sophie. If Jaskier was going to be getting himself into trouble again, he was at least going to enjoy his company when he did it, and help rescue him when it inevitably ended poorly, as it always did. Jaskier did have the most amazing talent for romancing the worst possible people he could find. 

Geralt trailed behind Jaskier as he wound his way through the cafe, heading towards an empty table, now that they had their drinks. They hadn’t been waiting long before a short woman in a long, dark green dress stepped through the door, and Jaskier began waving towards her frantically. She waved at him and pointed towards the counter, tugging the young man with her by the hand as she went. Of course. Of course the woman Jaskier had turned his attention to was attached. At least a college student wasn’t going to have armed guards to send after Jaskier when he inevitably found out. 

Sophie faltered when she approached the table, and saw Geralt there. Her partner stepped slightly in front of her as she did. He had long since resigned himself to humans’ instinctive reactions to him, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it. He was preparing to make an excuse, and leave Jaskier to his flirtations, and possibly his punch, if it came to that, when Sophie visibly shook herself off and continued forward, brushing past her young man. Geralt’s estimation of her rose. There weren’t many humans who would even try to shake off their first reaction to him. Jaskier’s initial utter lack of a reaction was somewhat of an anomaly. 

As she slipped into the seat across from Jaskier, Sophie chirped, “Hi! I hope you don’t mind that I brought my boyfriend, Wilk.” She gestured to the platinum blond man with her, who sat opposite Geralt.

Jaskier grinned at her, “Not at all. Always a pleasure to meet the friends of friends.” His gaze swept over Wilk appreciatively. “Particularly when they’re so pleasant to look at.”

Wilk glanced at Sophie before perching in the chair across from Geralt, “Thank you, I think. And I prefer Wil, mostly.” He watched Geralt out of the corner of his eye, but focused most of his attention on Jaskier. “Sophie tells me that you are going to help us with our costumes for the next faire?”

As Jaskier got down to business looking over the photographs of Valsgaurd’s costumes, Geralt observed how all three interacted. Jaskier was flirting shamelessly with both of them, although neither seemed to take his flirtations seriously. At least he wasn’t going to have to watch Jaskier leave with either of them. Or save Jaskier from an angry boyfriend. Today, at least. The thought that he undoubtedly would, eventually sat uneasily with Geralt. He had no right to feel possessive over Jaskier, but the longer he was able to put off dealing with that, the longer he had to find a way to hide those bitter thoughts. 

As they got wrapped up in the conversation about costuming, both Sophie and Wil seemed to forget that Geralt was there and relaxed more. By the time he cleared his throat and said, “We’ll have to leave soon.” They were so absorbed that they jumped and both their eyes flew to him. Geralt grimaced and added, “I have to get ready for one of Yennefer’s parties.”

Jaskier patted him on the arm and said, entirely unsympathetically, “Yes, you will have to grin and bear the fabulous party, with beautiful women, a cornucopia of delicacies and the finest wine on the continent.” He frowned. “Although you will have to put up with Yennefer all night, so I suppose I have some pity for you.”

Sophie let out a shocked giggle. “Yennefer of Aretuza is the most powerful mage on the Continent! Isn’t it a bit risky to so publicly express your dislike for her?”

Jaskier scoffed, and leaned towards her, “My dear, you wound me if you believe that she can intimidate me! Why, I have no fear of-”

Geralt cut off Jaskier’s dramatics with an eye roll, “What you really mean is that she has known you hated her since you met, and that there is no point in hiding that fact now.”

Jaskier pouted, leaning on Geralt, then suddenly dived for the bag he had brought along, “I almost forgot to return this!” He fished out the video camera he had been recording with incessantly. “I don’t know what to do with all the videos I’ve recorded though.”

Sophie looked at Wil with her eyebrows raised, and he tilted his head contemplatively and nodded before speaking, “I think that’s a good idea.”

Sophie turned to Jaskier, “How about, you agree to come to the next faire with us, and I’ll show you how to edit a video together.”

“I’m being asked to attend a social gathering with two _very_ attractive people.” Jaskier gestured dramatically towards both Sophie and Wil, “I don’t see how that is anything other than another benefit for me. Of course I accept!” 

Geralt hauled Jaskier to his feet, “We need to go now.”

Jaskier waved back to where Wil had his arm wrapped around Sophie, “We’ll arrange a time! My heart will yearn for the blissful sight of you, until we meet again!”

***

Jaskier grudgingly tapped Geralt’s card against the scanner at the door, and stumbled off the bus. As much as he did not want to rely on Geralt any more than he already was, he could find no other way to travel the distance to Sophie’s share house on the outskirts of Oxenfurt while Geralt was travelling with Yennefer to some political meeting that Geralt either knew very little about, or cared very little about. Knowing Geralt, it was both. 

Once the bus had driven off, Jaskier spun on the pavement, searching for the large tree and blue painted fence he had been told to look for. Spotting it, he pushed through the gate and knocked at the door. While he waited, he looked curiously at the plants hanging in pots under the eaves of the veranda, and a strange button fixed near eye height next to the door. 

He heard barking from inside, and paws scrabbling on a smooth floor before Sophie’s voice came through, slightly muffled, “Thor! Don’t you jump on that door! Thor!” There were closer scratching sounds, this time on the door, and “Thor, get down! Down!” Sophie’s face peeked through a small crack in the door. “One minute.” She closed the door again for a moment, and when she opened it, she was hunched over, holding the collar of a medium sized brown dog, with long fur and a doggy grin on it’s face. “Come on in. He’s harmless, just enthusiastic. I can lock him up if he bothers you.”

Jaskier offered his hand to the mutt, for that’s clearly what he was; it didn’t resemble any breed he had ever heard of, and the dog promptly sniffed it and wagged his tail so hard he nearly fell over. Jaskier laughed and said, “I think we’ll be fine friends.” Then stepped into the house. 

The room he stepped into had dark furniture, including several bookshelves, filled with both books and small trinkets that he did not have a chance to look at properly as Sophie led the way through the house to a small study. She spoke as she walked, Thor now trotting alongside her, tongue lolling out. “Everyone else is out at the moment. Wil had work, and I’m not sure where Janet and Elenor are, but they’re not here.” She flicked on the light switch and said, “I think we should start with the video, and you can have a closer look at all the costumes once we’re done, if that suits?”

Jaskier peered around the room, taking in the dark furniture and the posters on the wall, and answered, “If that’s your preference, then I am at your command.”

Sophie pulled a strangely shaped chair with wheels on the bottom of it out from behind one of the two desks and swung it around to face the other. As soon as Jaskier was sitting on it, Thor lay down on the floor next to it and slid his head onto Jaskier’s lap, looking up at him adoringly. Jaskier absently smoothed his hand over the dog’s floppy ears while Sophie pressed a button on the side of a large box on the desk and the screen lit up.

Before Sophie sat down on her own chair, she poked at something, and for a moment Jaskier thought the black chair had bright yellow eyes, before the lump moved a little, and it became clear it was a small, entirely black cat, who made a disgruntled noise, then stretched dramatically and flowed off the chair. 

“That’s Jiji. He’s not so enthusiastic about new people. Best to keep your hands to yourself, even if he seems like he’s looking for a pat.” Sophie explained before she sat. 

Jiji headbutted Thor, and Jaskier reached down to pat his head. Jiji took a swipe at his fingers as soon as they came near him, then sauntered out of the room.

Sophie laughed at him. “I did tell you.” She clapped her hands together. “Let’s get started, shall we? I’ll show you how to edit a video together for the first one, and then I’ll help you with the next one. Sound like a plan?”

Jaskier nursed his lightly bleeding fingers and answered, “I bow to the master.”

“I’m not so sure I’m a master, but sure.” Sophie said. 

Jaskier handed over the small rectangular stick that Geralt had said would store the videos on it and Sophie got started, watching the videos Jaskier had taken to correct the documentary he had seen. 

Some takes she deleted entirely as being of no use, and others she kept to possibly use, explaining her reasoning as she went. Eventually she came across a particularly long video. They both watched as on the screen Jaskier spoke on the couch in the foreground, and behind him there was the sound of a door opening and closing, and then Geralt walked into the frame and swung his swords off his back and thumped them down, behind the couch and out of sight. On the screen, Jaskier swung around and exclaimed at Geralt’s return, and from his seat next to Sophie, Jaskier put his hand across his eyes, realising which take this was, and what happened next. 

Jaskier listened to the sounds of his and Geralt’s bickering, then out of the corner of his eyes, saw Sophie’s jaw drop. She held her closed fist towards him and said, “Nice.”

Jaskier looked at her hand, then his eyes caught on the screen where Geralt was in frame, grumbling about something still, and entirely shirtless. Melitile but that man looked good without a shirt.

Sophie waved her hand in front of his face, and drawled, “I know it’s a very nice view, but shall we move on? You’re supposed to bump my fist back, by the way.” Jaskier did so, but didn’t stop watching the screen.

Eventually, distractions notwithstanding, they had edited both videos and Jaskier was starting to get the hang of the editing software, so they moved on to looking at the costumes. 

Thor was banished from the room, to prevent everything being covered in dog hair. Jaskier held up the first dress on the rack and asked, “So what time period were you aiming for?”

“The mid to late 1200’s. Is it close?” Sophie answered. 

Jaskier barked a laugh, “I think my grandparents might have worn something like it, maybe. When they were young.” He reached out and plucked another costume off the rack and pronounced, “This though! This is more like it. See the shape of the shoulders and waist? How it creates a very different silhouette than this other one?” 

Sophie settled in with a sketchbook she pulled out from a pile of fabric and started taking notes as Jaskier talked. 

***

When Jaskier returned to Geralt’s apartment, he was in the kitchen, putting together what Jaskier hoped was one of his potions, and not something he would be expected to eat. He glanced up when Jaskier opened the door. “You get interrupted? It’s not like you to leave so quickly after a liason.”

“I’ll have you know I was a perfect gentleman.” Jaskier sniffed with wounded pride. He trailed his fingers along the kitchen bench until he was close enough to snatch up the heavy, cream coloured envelope that was sitting near Geralt’s left arm. 

Geralt failed to hide his slight smile at Jaskier’s antics. “I’m fairly sure we have different definitions of what a gentleman is, then.”

“I am most offended! I’ll have you know that I have the finest manners from here to Toussaint.” Jaskier pouted, and pulled the letter out with a flourish, then glanced down at it. “In fact, in recompense for your slight, I insist that you accept this invitation, and bring me with you.”

Geralt groaned. “Jaskier, it’s the unveiling of a statue, it will be a boring, stuffy affair, filled with people with more money than sense.”

“A statue in your honour!” Jaskier protested, “You can’t turn it down! And parties filled with people with more money than sense are the best kind. They do the most interesting things.”

Geralt snatched the letter out of Jaskier’s hand. “It’s not in my honour. It’s in honour of the people killed by the wyvern, before I killed it.”

“Yes, and as you said, you killed it, helping bring closure to all those poor families.” Jaskier dramatically spread his arms out, “And what could better close that chapter of their lives than seeing the witcher who did it, to thank him in person.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow at him, “Because I am so very well known for my kindness, and social graces.”

“You know, you don’t give yourself enough credit, Geralt,” Jaskier said quietly, fingertips on Geralt’s forearm. “Although you do lack social graces, I’ll grant you.” He flapped a hand at Geralt, “All the more reason to bring your barker with you, to ensure they are left with a good impression.”

“I thought you said you were more interested in rich, stupid people, doing idiotic things?” Geralt asked with a small smile, leaning in towards him.

“I can be invested in both!” Jaskier protested.

Geralt huffed a breath. “We’ll need to get you some more appropriate clothes.”

Jaskier grinned at him. “I have some ideas already. For both of our outfits.” Geralt was already stunning, but Jaskier had _ideas_ for some outfits that would emphasise his mouth watering shoulders, and trim waist. Not to mention just a small pop of colour could make his eyes even more striking.

“And I already regret agreeing to this.” Geralt said, but didn’t even try to hide his grin.

***

Geralt tried not to fidget with his suit jacket again. He waited for Jaskier to finally emerge from the bathroom, where he was spending an age either fussing with his hair, or staring at himself in the mirror again. There had been several mornings that Geralt had been left with no choice but to barge in on him, to find that he had already showered and dressed, but was still looking at himself in the mirror. He was worse than a peacock, sometimes. 

The clothes Jaskier had picked out for him at least fit better than the ones he had stuffed Geralt into for the banquet in Cintra all those years ago, and Geralt was letting Jaskier believe that he hadn’t noticed the embossed buttercups on the golden tie he had picked out to go with the black suit and cream shirt. 

Geralt was preparing to tell Jaskier that if he didn’t hurry up they would be late, when he finally strolled out of the bathroom, and Geralt’s breath caught. The lines of the charcoal suit emphasised his narrow waist and broad shoulders, and he had put on some subtle eyeliner that made his eyes stand out even more. There was a light dusting of something shiny over his cheekbones and it should have looked ridiculous, but he managed to not just pull it off, but make it look almost natural. Jaskier fidgeted with his cuffs and Geralt’s eyes were drawn to where he had left the top button of the deep plum shirt undone, and he could see the tiniest bit of Jaskier’s chest hair peeking out. 

Jaskier spread his arms and did a little twirl. “Well, what do you think?”

Geralt snapped his jaw shut, and managed, “Hmm.” 

Jaskier smirked at him knowingly, then reached into his pocket, “And the final touches are right here.” On his palm were two sets of cufflinks. “I found them in a case in the bedroom; I imagine that you have them for events with Yennefer?”

He stepped so close that Geralt could feel the warmth radiating off him, and delicately grasped his wrist to put on the first cufflink. Geralt’s normally slow heart rate felt like it was speeding. Jaskier’s hand slid down his own as he released the first wrist and moved to the other. As he finished, he peeked up at Geralt through his eyelashes, “What do you think?”

Geralt came back to himself and looked down at the cufflinks Jaskier had chosen. They were a gold set that Ciri had given him, round, and embossed with a lion’s head. He cleared his throat and managed, “They’ll do.”

Jaskier turned Geralt’s hand, that he still had not let go of, and placed the other set of cufflinks in his palm. “Put mine on?”

As Geralt fumbled with the silver cufflinks, he saw that they were also round, but these were embossed with the same wolf symbol that was on his witcher medallion. Finally he stepped back and cleared his throat again. “We should go.”

Jaskier said, “Alright then.” And sauntered past Geralt to the door. Geralt took a moment to collect himself. It was going to be a long night. 

When they arrived at their destination in a taxi, Geralt held the door as Jaskier stepped out, partially out of habit from travelling with Yennefer. Jaskier smiled at him as he passed, then turned to look at the entrance to the park, which had been cordoned off with decorative fencing, blocking the view to inside. Jaskier stood with Geralt as he presented the invitation at the gate, and peered around once they were inside.

The party was being held in the open air, with the newly erected statue in pride of place at the centre of it all, lavishly decorated tables off to one side, ready for the meals, and a large open dance space on the other, in front of a stage. Small clusters of people were standing around the space, all of them dressed in their finest. Geralt wondered how quickly he could find a dark corner to stand in and wait, while Jaskier socialised. He had very little hope of leaving the party early. The only time he had ever known Jaskier to want to leave an event as fine as this one, was the time when the Lord of Attre had recognised him as the man his wife had an affair with several years before. At least Geralt knew that there would not be any cuckolded husbands at this party. Even Jaskier hadn’t had time for that yet. 

After a moment of observing the scene, Jaskier flitted off towards a young lady standing just outside one of the small clumps of people, and Geralt went to find himself a drink. Perhaps if he drank enough, the night would pass faster. He was quickly able to find himself a seat near the edge of the dining area, away from most of the people, but still in sight of Jaskier. While there couldn’t possibly be anyone with a pre-existing grudge against him, Jaskier did have a tendency to step on toes, both without meaning to and entirely intentionally, when he felt it was called for. He was already effortlessly charming both the young lady he had initially approached and the group that she had been standing near. Every few minutes his eyes would seek out Geralt through the crowd, but he seemed content where he was, and Geralt left him to it. 

More quickly than should have been possible, Jaskier had accumulated a small group of people hanging off his every word, and seemed to be telling some sort of story that involved expansive hand gestures and his usual animated facial expressions. A man standing towards the back of the group said something that must have been disparaging, because Jaskier reacted with a look of almost comical offense. Some of the other people in the group turned towards the man Jaskier took umbrage to, and regarded him with sceptical expressions. After some more back and forth conversation, Jaskier raised his voice above the crowd and called, “Geralt! Come over here and prove to them I’m not lying or deluded.”

With a small groan, Geralt pushed himself out of his seat, and stalked over, bringing his newly filled wine glass with him. “What is it, Jaskier? What sort of outrageous claim have you made this time?”

Jaskier huffed, “Only my name. It seems these good people simply do not believe I am who I say I am. You, however, are well known for your utter _lack_ of humour, and if you simply affirm for them who I am, I will be vindicated!”

Geralt smiled and placed a hand on the small of Jaskier’s back as he leaned forwards to murmur into his ear, “What happened to your masterful grasp of language? Can’t the great bard Jaskier convince a group of half-drunk party goers of his own identity without assistance?”

Jaskier shivered a little, surely from the chilly night air, and retorted, “Of course I could! But it’s so much more entertaining to _not_ have to convince every person I speak to of my own name.”

Simply coming when Jaskier called for him seemed to have convinced most of the crowd that Jaskier was who he said he was, and they had already started whispering to each other, in a way that would not have been discreet even without witcher hearing. A small number had dispersed as soon as Geralt had walked over, moving out of his way and not returning. Those who had stayed eventually tired of gossiping among themselves, and turned their attention back to Geralt and Jaskier.

A woman who Geralt had seen leaning towards Jaskier earlier, and resting her hand on his arm while she spoke, asked, “How long have you been-” She faltered, “Here? Back?”

Jaskier turned his attention back towards the woman, “Barely more than a month, my lady.”

Geralt repressed a scowl. He had expected from the very beginning that Jaskier would become entangled with at least one person here, so he had no call to be angry when Jaskier acted like Jaskier. Once, all of the continent had known how notoriously flighty he was, and Geralt could hardly pretend to be unaware that his attention was going to move on to someone else. It was a large part of the reason he had turned down Jaskier’s advances in the first place, despite wanting nothing more than to accept. It would hurt more to have had a taste of that sort of relationship with him, and then lose it, than not have it at all. And it would be a relationship. For all that he seemed to have a new lover in every town, he genuinely cared for each of them. His passions were sincere. But they were temporary, and Geralt would much rather Jaskier’s much more permanent friendship than to temporarily be his lover. 

By the time Geralt had pulled himself together, the conversation had shifted to music, and Geralt realised he still had not removed his hand from Jaskier’s waist. Far from minding, Jaskier had shifted his weight to lean more firmly into the touch while he continued his conversation. Jaskier’s hands were flying as he illustrated his point to the people who were still listening. The woman who had been flirting with Jaskier earlier had melted back into the crowd and vanished, but there was still at least half a dozen listening to Jaskier expand on whatever point he was making about musical theory. 

Geralt could hear people whispering to each other, in low tones that they probably thought he couldn’t hear, about how yes, the attractive man with the witcher really _was_ Julian Pankratz, and wasn’t he brave for not flinching away from him? There were a few groups trying to pluck up their courage to come near Geralt to talk to Jaskier. 

Geralt debated whether he should move his hand and go back to his seat until an older gentleman, perhaps in his late middle age, tentatively addressed him, “Thank you for dispatching the wyvern. Nothing will ever bring her back, but I know my Lacey will rest easier now that it is gone.”

Geralt had hoped to avoid the families of the victims entirely. After all, he had not managed to do anything to save them, and it was quite common for people to blame him for their loss, for not getting there in time to save their loved ones. Geralt answered stiffly, “I did my job.” 

Jaskier immediately dropped his conversation and turned towards the man talking to Geralt. “What Geralt _means_ to say, is that it was his duty and his honour to perform the very important public service of ridding this township of it’s great and terrible menace, and he is humbled to receive your thanks.”

Geralt awkwardly cleared his throat and said, “Yes, that.” Before shooting Jaskier a grateful look and fleeing back to his corner. 

***

Jaskier was quite pleased with how Geralt looked in his suit, the tie standing out against the otherwise sombre ensemble, and highlighting his eyes. Jaskier was quite proud of surreptitiously choosing a tie with buttercups embossed on it, and being sneaky enough about it that Geralt hadn’t even noticed. It was a pity that every time he got an opportunity Geralt went back to his out of the way table, but Jaskier hadn’t really expected anything different. Geralt had never been anything short of uncomfortable in social situations, and even more so when the focus was on him. 

While Jaskier was quite happy with how his own outfit looked, and had even checked with Sophie to be sure he wasn’t making any sort of faux pas that he didn’t know about, he would have preferred if he had been able to pay for it himself. The knowledge that everything he wore, everything he owned, even everything he ate, was paid for by Geralt sat uneasily with him. Perhaps Geralt had a point when he turned down Jaskier’s advances. Jaskier imagined that he could only feel more uncomfortable with the situation if Geralt had accepted. That’s not to say that Jaskier wasn’t pushing boundaries as far as he dared. Geralt just reacted so beautifully. The way his eyes had widened and jaw had dropped when Jaskier first emerged from the bathroom had been immensely gratifying. And the way his breath had sped up when Jaskier stood so close to put on the cufflinks had been nothing less than wonderful. Geralt got his own revenge, of course, when Jaskier had called him over, leaning in so close, his large, warm hand on the small of his back, calluses catching on the smooth fabric. It had been all Jaskier could do to pay attention to the words Geralt was whispering in his ear, and even after he had stood up straight again, no longer gusting warm air over Jaskier’s ear and neck, Jaskier still struggled to keep his attention on the conversation around them. 

Even now that Geralt had escaped back to where he was brooding at the corner of a table, Jaskier’s attention had drifted back towards him. He forcibly brought his thoughts back to the party. Such a lavish affair deserved his full concentration. He scanned the area, and quickly spotted a man standing by himself near the stage, watching the musicians set up their equipment. Clearly this was someone with shared interests, and without a companion. Jaskier strolled over to start a conversation.

“Are you watching for a particular performer, or just interested in music in general?” Jaskier asked, when he was close enough.

The man shot him a quick, distracted smile and answered, “Oh, no, I’m here for work. I was just taking a moment to breathe before dinner is served. I organised this event.”

Oh ho! This was even better than a conversation with a reasonably attractive man who was interested in music. “Did you really? My compliments then, everything is going off without a hitch.”

“Thank you, it’s always nice to hear that the guests are enjoying themselves.” The man, who had yet to introduce himself, glanced down at his watch, and relaxed his shoulders a touch. Things must still be on schedule, then.

“Well, that is the goal of any entertainer, isn’t it?” Jaskier said mildly, “I know that is always my aim when I take to the stage.”

The man glanced back over towards Jaskier, “You’re a performer, then?”

“Yes, and in fact, I am looking to establish myself. I’d be happy to offer some musical assistance.” Jaskier said casually.

“I’m afraid I am not looking for any other musicians to hire. I am quite happy with those I already employ, and do not have space in my schedule for any more.” The man smiled politely, absently, and excused himself.

Ordinarily, being turned down for a potential gig, particularly so politely, would not have bothered Jaskier. Especially given that he may have even been telling the truth about not needing any more employees. But ordinarily Jaskier was able to at least walk into the nearest tavern and immediately have an audience would might at least toss him a few coins. When he had tried that here, he had been summarily ejected from those, as well. 

Feeling a need to recover his composure, Jaskier walked briskly towards where a garden had been included in the event area, the trees and bushes strategically decorated with small, colourful lights, and moved with purpose until he found a small, unoccupied space with a low stone bench. Jaskier sat facing away from the entrance, and remembered about the eyeliner he had put on only a moment before he rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. How foolish to think that he would be able to get any work. He hadn’t even been invited to this event, it had been Geralt’s invitation. It was very clear that he was unwanted, and all his skills so far out of date as to be entirely useless. His eyes burned, and he blinked rapidly to clear them. 

A small scuffing noise toward the entrance caught Jaskier’s attention, and he called out, “I’m not seeking company at the moment, I’m afraid. I’m sure there are other lovely people here who are, though, if you keep looking.”

A familiar voice answered, “Not seeking company? That’s a first.”

Jaskier spun around, “Geralt! I thought you were busy scaring off anyone who might dare speak to you. Usually that occupies your entire night.”

Geralt came and sat next to Jaskier, looking towards the lights in the trees. “You rushed off so quickly. I was worried you had mortally offended someone and I would have to defend your honour.” The slight smile on Geralt’s lips made it clear he was teasing. His face became more serious, and he turned to face Jaskier, “Are you alright? It isn’t like you, to leave a party like this.”

“Yes, of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to meet Geralt’s eyes.

“You know, for someone who is so remarkably good at lying, you just lied very poorly.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, “It’s nothing you can do anything about, Geralt. It is simply becoming very clear to me that I am entirely useless, and will never be hired again.”

Geralt put his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and waited. Once Jaskier was looking at him, Geralt said, “There is nothing wrong with taking time to find your feet. You’ve been here, what? Five weeks? And in that time you’ve adapted remarkably well. There is no shame in not having everything figured out already.”

Jaskier smiled at him wanly, and leaned into the touch. Geralt sat with him silently, until Jaskier finally took a deep breath, slapped his thighs, and stood. “I suppose there is no point in moping here. I heard that they were serving dinner soon. It would be a shame to miss it. Shall we?”

By the time they had emerged from the garden and back into the open area, most of the other guests were seated, and they hurried to find a pair of seats next to each other. Jaskier ended up seated next to a girl who couldn’t have been older than fifteen, with her mother on the other side of her. Geralt ended up next to a very uncomfortable looking older woman, who had scooted her chair as far away as she could. With any luck, Jaskier would be able to charm her into at least not feeling so threatened. 

By the time the main course had been served, the older woman, who had introduced herself as Katherine, was leaning around Geralt to talk to Jaskier. Since it was unlikely Geralt was going to hold a conversation at the party at all, given how uncomfortable he was in social situations, that was as good an outcome as Jaskier could have hoped for. She was relaxed enough about Geralt to have moved her chair closer again, and was disregarding his presence to continue the conversation about the trivia group she went to every Thursday. Jaskier knew enough about fear to know that she wasn’t even a little bit afraid of Geralt anymore, to be ignoring him so thoroughly.

“And of course we have to guess at most of the questions about music, because none of us know all that much about it, but we sometimes get it right. Even a stopped clock and all that!” Katherine was saying cheerfully.

From Jaskier’s other side, he felt a light tap on his back, and he turned to see who was trying to get his attention. It was the teenaged girl, and as soon as he was facing her, she took a deep breath and asked, “Is the rumour true?”

The rest of her question was cut off by her mother, who hissed, “Casey, leave him alone! Let the poor man eat his dinner without bothering him about silly rumours.”

Jaskier gave her a wide smile, “Nonsense, I’m always delighted to help the curious obtain knowledge. What rumour are you asking about? I’ve heard several tonight, all the more tantalising than the last.”

“Is it true that you’re really Julian Pankratz?” She asked eagerly. 

Before Jaskier had a chance to answer, Geralt leaned forward far enough to see Casey and simply said, “Yes. He’s Jaskier.” Then he went back to his meal. 

Casey squealed. “Maddy is going to be so jealous. She loves historical sh- stuff.” She glanced guiltily at her mother, then continued. “Maddy would kill me if I didn’t ask, did you really write ‘Toss a Coin’ when you were only twenty?”

“I was eighteen, actually. I made a video about some of the things I’ve heard about myself that are wrong, if you’re interested.” Jaskier offered. 

Casey whipped out her phone and started typing, ignoring her mother’s protests about phones at the dinner table. “What’s the URL? I’ve got to send this to Maddy, she’s gonna _flip_.”

Jaskier laughed, and told her, and once she finished typing, she said, “Actually, can I get a selfie? Otherwise Maddy will _never_ believe me.”

Jaskier laughed, and agreed, and when she took the photo he noticed that she carefully angled the phone to clearly show Geralt behind them.

While dessert was being served, Geralt leaned towards Jaskier and murmured, “You’re all anyone is talking about now.”

Jaskier smiled smugly, “Well, I _am_ the most interesting person here. Of course they are.”

***

Two days after the party, Jaskier leapt over the back of the couch to sit next to Geralt, who was watching a documentary about penguins. Jaskier was holding the laptop in one hand, and leaned over to drape himself across Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt turned to more easily accommodate his weight and kept watching his documentary. Jaskier would tell him what he came to say sooner or later, regardless of what he did, and the longer he pretended to ignore him, the more Jaskier would lean on him to get his attention.

“Geralt,” Jaskier declared, “I have now reached two thousand hits on my first video.” He waved the laptop at Geralt, as though to show him, but didn’t hold it still long enough for even a witcher to focus on the screen. “Granted, some of the comments are, frankly, hurtful, but I suppose even these days you’re going to get hecklers.”

“Hm.” Geralt wasn’t sure how he was supposed to react to this information, and he knew that Jaskier did not actually require any input from him to continue a conversation. He’d find out sooner or later where Jaskier was going with this. Hopefully he didn’t expect Gerlat to have watched the video he was talking about.

“In light of my relative success, I have decided to make some more videos. And you, my dear witcher, will be in at least one of them.” Jaskier commanded.

“No.” Geralt knew it was futile, that he was going to end up going along with whatever harebrained scheme Jaskier had cooked up, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to at least pretend to object.

“Come on Geralt, you know you’re going to give in sooner or later. I’m far too irritating to deny for long.” Jaskier wasn’t wrong. “You may as well give in now, and save yourself the hassle. And it would benefit you, too. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that your image has gone downhill again since I’ve been gone.”

“It helps for intimidating people.” Geralt tried.

“You know what would help for not having people cross the road to avoid you?” Jaskier asked, then answered his own question, “Not deliberately intimidating people.” Jaskier was still draped mostly across Geralt’s lap, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted Jaskier off him, or wanted him to stay there forever. 

“It’s part of my job.” 

“That you couldn’t possibly do any other way? Really, Geralt, you’re an intelligent man, I know you could come up with other ways of achieving the same ends. And if Yennefer doesn’t like it, fuck her.”

Geralt groaned, giving in. Dragging it out any further was a waste of his time, anyway. Jaskier whooped, and ran off, presumably to collect the video camera he had borrowed from Sophie again. 

A month after giving in to Jaskier, Geralt was almost grateful to the mage who was either malicious enough, or incompetent enough, to make some sort of mutated spiders that were threatening to overrun a small town in Verden. Almost. Not even being able to escape Jaskier’s constant filming was compensation enough to make hunting down giant, venomous spiders that seemed to multiply every time he turned around seem worthwhile. It had taken him two days to realise the fucking things were reanimating after he killed them, and that any bits he hacked off turned into more of the bastard things. When he tracked down the mage who made them, he was going to do something very unpleasant to him. Like give him to Yen. 

As irritating as Jaskier was being, at least he was in high spirits. The number of people watching his videos meant that he was able to make some money off them, and had also set up another website of some kind that was bringing in income for him as well. When Geralt hadn’t returned in the three days he had estimated he would be gone, Jaskier had started calling him each evening, and nattering on about whatever crossed his mind. He made a point, though, of asking after any injuries Geralt had. One of the downsides of the modern world was that any hunt that happened near people ended up either on the news, or on the internet. He’d thought it was difficult keeping Jaskier from getting mauled when he first met him, but he had at least had better self preservation instincts than some of the packs of journalists who would follow him on some hunts. 

A week into capturing, then burning the spiders, with many more still to find, Yen sent him an email with a video, the subject line only saying, ‘I had forgotten he could be funny’. It was one of Jaskier’s videos, this one a compilation of Geralt saying ‘hm’ and ‘fuck’, arranged to sound like music. Geralt hadn’t even realised Jaskier had been filming the day he accidentally smashed the jam jar all over the floor and been absolutely covered in blackberry jam. She also sent him another video, this one of Jaskier performing one of his ballads, and Geralt watched this one through to the end. He hadn’t thought he would miss Jaskier as much as he did. He had spent so long without him, that he had expected not to miss him. But it apparently didn’t take long to get used to his presence again, and he found himself always listening for Jaskier. The man could not help but make noise constantly, singing, humming, tapping his fingers. Geralt was convinced that Jaskier didn’t even realise he was doing it, most of the time. The one evening Jaskier was a little late calling him, Geralt found himself dialing Jaskier’s number, just to let the sound of his talking wash over him. 

During one of their phone calls, Jaskier told him that various historians had been contacting him, asking for interviews. 

“This is the fifth person who thinks I’ll just let them interview me for free.” Jaskier said, over the phone. “One or two interviews I might consider, but the number of people who want to interview me would be a serious investment in time. And I do want to do things _other_ than talk about boring things.” He complained. “There are just so many of them, I don’t know how to manage it. And I still haven’t gotten any chances to perform. I miss it. I just don’t feel like myself without an audience for my songs.”

“Why not give a lecture?” Geralt suggested. “With a set amount of question time at the end. Get it all done in one go.”

“Not a bad idea, really.” Jaskier mused, then continued more briskly, “Now, that wound on your leg. Don’t think I didn’t notice you limping on the news tonight. What have you done to help it heal?”

Geralt groaned. He was lying across the bed in the shitty hotel he was staying at, and the last thing he wanted to do was get up again to deal with a wound that would be nearly healed by morning. “Fucking reporters.”

“So nothing then. Up. Go disinfect it or do whatever needs to be done, so you don’t end up making it worse.” Jaskier commanded.

“Don’t get infections.” Geralt grunted.

“That’s not what I said. Go on. Get it fixed. Or I’ll stop talking.”

Geralt didn’t move. “Like you could follow through with that threat.”

Jaskier spluttered. “I- I’ll hang up, then.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” Geralt levered himself up. “Only a few more days to be sure I’ve got them all, and I should be able to leave, and let Yen deal with the mage.”

Geralt ended up falling asleep listening to Jaskier talk, and when he woke in the morning, the phone told him that Jaskier must have stayed on the line for at least an hour after he had stopped responding at all. Geralt couldn’t figure out why Jaskier kept calling him, or why he would talk for so long. Surely he had plenty of other people to talk to, now. People far more interesting, and pleasant to talk to, than Geralt. And there was no way he hadn’t found someone to become infatuated with in the weeks since he had been away, and what must they be thinking of Jaskier spending so much time devoted to Geralt?

The last day before he left, Geralt was waiting for his coffee when he got an email from Ciri, titled simply ‘Watch This’, and when he opened the body of the email, he saw she had written, ‘You better tap that, if you haven’t already’. Brow creased with confusion, he opened the video and saw it was one of Jaskier’s. He was performing one of his love ballads, something with some sort of metaphor involving snowy mountains and golden sunshine. Jaskier must have filmed it before he left, because he could see himself in profile in the background, doing something in the kitchen. 

A male voice came from behind him, with a strong accent, “Oh, that’s a good one. Have you seen the one where he talks about things that he finds weird these days? Hilarious.” 

Geralt turned, and saw a middle aged man in clean clothes, stained with black grease, behind him. The man reached forward and jabbed a finger at the screen on Geralt’s phone. “See, that one there.” He turned and looked at Geralt’s face for the first time. He squinted. “You look kinda familiar, you know. Do I know you from somewhere?”

Geralt looked pointedly down at where he was still visible in the video on his screen, and waited for the man to realise. He followed Geralt’s gaze with incomprehension for a moment, before suddenly exclaiming, “Oh!” and putting his hand over his eyes. 

Geralt heard the barista call his name, and took the excuse to leave, abandoning the man to his embarrassment. 

Geralt was surprised not to be able to hear Jaskier when he finally arrived home. He could smell that Jaskier was there, but he was not talking or singing, or making any sounds at all. It was early afternoon, but that did not mean Jaskier was not asleep. He quietly shut the door, so as not to wake Jaskier, but when he turned, he found him draped across the couch, face down. 

Without moving at all, Jaskier whined, “Apparently, my music is ‘derivative’, ‘out of date’, and ‘like being poked in the ear with a skewer’. Elysium has decided that they don’t want me to perform in their establishment.”

Geralt pushed Jaskier’s legs off one end of the couch and sat down next to him. “You’ll find something, eventually.”

Jaskier turned his head to glare at Geralt as he rearranged, turning over and pouting at Geralt as he positioned his legs in Geralt’s lap. “I have been turned down twenty times in a row, Geralt. I rather doubt that.” He sighed dramatically and waved a hand through the air, “I probably should have just died, rather than being brought here, since I can’t be myself without performance, and really, how long can one endure not being one’s self?”

Geralt froze. He had been prepared to listen to Jaskier bemoan his inability to set up a live performance, but this. He set his jaw, and drew in a deep, steadying breath, and shoved Jaskier’s legs off his lap. He felt a little like crying, and a little like raging. He growled, volume steadily increasing as he spoke, “I grieved for you. For centuries. How _dare_ you say you would rather have died than be here.”

Jaskier’s face twisted, and he stood up. “Then at least I would be _stuck_ here, having needed you for so long, when you have _never_ needed me!”

Very quietly, Geralt murmured, “But I wanted you.” Geralt could hardly believe what he had said. He had kept it to himself for so long that he had almost believed he did not have the words to say it at all. Stupid. If anything would make Jaskier leave, make him pack his things and find another place to live, and never return, it was knowing how Geralt felt. It was one thing to share a small apartment with a friend, another entirely when you knew that friend wanted you. 

Jaskier froze, then, faintly, “What?”

“I might not need you, but I wanted you.” Geralt repeated, louder. “For longer than I care to think about.” He had already ruined things, he may as well get everything out in the open, weather Jaskier’s disgust and horror, and try to move on in the aftermath. “I’ll help you find a place to move out to, and stay in a hotel until you do. I won’t- I won’t make you-”

Jaskier let out a little sob, and slapped a hand across Geralt’s mouth, “Shut up, you idiot. _I_ kissed _you_ last time, remember?” Jaskier stepped closer, and let his hand slip down again, “The one thing I don’t understand, is why not say something before now?

Geralt licked his lips nervously, “You always move on from lovers so quickly.” Seeing the look on Jaskier’s face, he added, “I don’t mean you don’t care for them. But. There’s a huge blow up, or things fizzle out. And I would rather have been your friend for the rest of your life, however long that is, than be your lover for a brief time.”

“We’ll come back to that, but you haven’t answered my question. Why _now_?” Jaskier insisted.

Geralt closed his eyes. “I’m tired of regretting the things I said, and the things I didn’t do.”

Jaskier reached out and gently placed a hand on Geralt’s cheek, waiting until Geralt opened his eyes. “You know, don’t you, that this wouldn’t be a brief fling?”

Geralt couldn’t help but to lean into the touch, to place his hand over Jaskier’s to keep it there. “Do I? You’ve never kept a lover for more than a few years, at most. I could accept that, as long as you are still my friend after.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier stepped closer to Geralt, so close he could feel Jaskier’s warmth radiating all down his front. “I’ve loved you for a decade at least.” He murmured, so quietly only witcher hearing allowed Geralt to make it out. “Even when I hated you for what you said, I loved you. I’m not moving on from you. Not ever.” He added with a smile. “Most of my love songs are about you.”

Geralt revelled in the touch, the words. He had thought, at most, Jaskier might tell him that he could tolerate Geralt’s feelings. But to be told that he _loved_ him. He let out a shuddering breath. “Why not say something yourself? Why wait until now?”

Jaskier chuckled. “You weren’t ready. Can you honestly say that you wouldn’t have abandoned me in some nothing town, if I had said something back then?”

Geralt tentatively wrapped an arm around Jaskier’s waist, and Jaskier leaned his weight into the embrace, as if trusting Geralt to keep him up.

Geralt tucked his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck and breathed in the smell of him, sweat, a faint floral scent that must be from one of Jaskier’s toiletries, and the shampoo that Jaskier had insisted they both start using. Tentatively, he pressed a light kiss into the smooth skin under his lips, and when Jaskier tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, making more room, he kissed him again, this time lips slightly open. He tasted of sweat, and ever so slightly of soap. Jaskier let out a quiet moan, and Geralt slowly worked his way up Jaskier’s neck, over his cheek, enjoying the feel of the rough stubble on his lips. It seemed, however, that Jaskier was not content to simply let Geralt lead, and he threaded his fingers into the hair at the back of Geralt’s head, and directed him into an open mouthed kiss. It was Geralt’s turn to moan, and Jaskier trailed his free hand up and down Geralt’s spine, leaving goosebumps in his wake. 

After an eternity, Jaskier pulled back and said, “I never thought we’d get here.”

Geralt pressed another kiss to Jaskier’s lips, and replied, “And yet, here we are.”


	3. Epilogue- Yennefer

Yennefer was about ready to set someone on fire by the time she got back to her Skype meeting. First she had been interrupted in the middle of her meeting, and trying to get actual _words_ out of Geralt was difficult enough as it was, even these days, when he was so happy, without having to try to pick up the conversation from where they left off. Then, the problem that she should have been able to sort out in five minutes turned out to require a lot of delicate handling, and Reynard of all people had tried to deal with it himself, which meant it had, instead, taken her nearly an hour. For all that he was insanely powerful, and really couldn’t be left to his own devices, most days she regretted deciding to train him. 

She returned to her study, resigned to having been hung up on. Yennefer couldn’t even blame Geralt for hanging up on her, when she had been gone for so long. She was still going to give him a hard time about it, but she couldn’t actually blame him. 

She was _very_ surprised to discover, when she got to her computer, that Geralt actually hadn’t hung up on her. Instead, he seemed to have forgotten entirely that he was on a Skype call at all. It was the only explanation for the conversation she was overhearing. 

“I just- I want to make sure you’ll be alright, after, that’s all.” Jaskier was saying from his place _on Geralt’s lap_. Honestly, could they _be_ any more sickening?

Geralt’s voice was muffled from where he had his face burrowed into Jaskier’s shoulder, and she barely made out his reply. “I realised, after I thought I had lost you, that the part that hurt the most, was the things I regretted not doing, or saying.” He looked up at Jaskier, and neither of them had even noticed that she was back, watching shamelessly from her seat, chin in hand. Geralt’s low voice continued, “I’ve been friends with humans since then, and not acknowledging how I felt only made things worse.” Geralt closed his eyes, and brought Jaskier down for a kiss. Yennefer didn’t even try to not roll her eyes at them. To her astonishment, Geralt kept talking. “I would rather spend however much time I have with you, enjoying you, than dreading the end.”

Yennefer couldn’t help herself any longer, and she laughed. It was very satisfying to see both of them startle, and Jaskier fall entirely off the couch. Still laughing, Yennefer asked, “What are you two maudlin idiots talking about?”

Jaskier glared at her from the floor, “I am, as you are aware, _human_. I’m only going to live for so long.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes again. She did that a lot when dealing with Jaskier. “No, you _were_ only going to live for so long. That spell Reynard fucked up stopped your aging. Somehow he’s taken you out of time entirely. You’re going to live until you piss off the wrong person and get yourself killed.” Jaskier was looking at her with wide eyed astonishment, jaw unattractively open wide. “You look ridiculous like that, by the way.” 

She looked down at her desk, where she had left her notes, and added, “Go away now, we still have business to discuss.”

For all that she was not fond of the bard, she was glad for Geralt’s sake that he wouldn’t be losing him again so soon. 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is finished, and will be updated once a week.


End file.
